


Kuss des Todes, Kuss der Liebe

by Lady_MidnightII



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angry Charles, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author does what Author wants, BAMF Erik, Beach Divorce, Borderline Personality Disorder, Cameos, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erik has Feelings, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Erik is a Sweetheart, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Falling In Love, I Don't Even Know, I watched Angels and Demons, I'm Bad At Tagging, In Regards to Norman Osborn, Inspired by a Movie, Jealousy, M/M, Macabre, Masturbation, Mild Gore, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reincarnation, Sebastian Shaw/Emma Frost - Freeform, Self-cest, Sexual Content, Shaw is a total Creepo, Time Skips, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Warning for Shaw, Weird Plot Shit, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 32,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_MidnightII/pseuds/Lady_MidnightII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, a young angel named Charles meets an ancient demon named Erik.  Charles is awestruck and verbally awkward, and Erik is not all Charles thinks he is.  They meet over the course of three days and nights, three centuries, and three words, pulled together by a prophecy beyond anyone's control.  Or that one where Charles gets mad at everyone, Erik is a sweetheart for once, Raven sets them all straight, and Tony Stark will not tolerate this shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This is the product of an old role-play with a friend and a never ending love for the metal bending and telepathic love birds. I tip my hat to both, and any future readers and critics. If I ruined their personalities, I shall sob and repent for all eternity; also repentant for inaccurate foreign language stuff. Later, things will get kind of dark, with non-con, attempted non-con, language, maybe a smutty thing or two. Just to warn everyone, y'know. I don't own anything, sadly, 'cept this story. I would appreciate feedback, I don't really have a beta at the moment.

Kuss des Todes, Kuss der Liebe

* * *

A shimmering barrier, like clear fishing line in the sun, separates two places, realms that dance in an eternal cosmic battle, but never mix, never touch except on a different plane, a different world, one where destruction won’t upset the balance of the universe and grey exists. On the side of eternally blue skies, green, cool grass,and white clouds never whipped to gray, a young man sits beside the wall. His shining chestnut hair is a dark walnut brown in the shadows of the oak trees, towering and craggy.

They never drop their leaves; it’s an eternal spring-summer, here in Heaven. The wind is always gentle, never hot or cold or moist. The air is flowery, golden, a sweet aroma layered over everything. Charles is very tired of it; perfection is not without its price: eternal sunshine, eternal beauty, and it’s eternally boring.

So he’s come here, to the edge of all things he knows. It’s a little warmer, a little darker, the grass more brown than green on this strip closest to the other side.

He looks curiously at the grove of grisled apple trees, much like their tan counterparts in Heaven. He’s been watching them for days. Their bark is more rough, gnarled, a deep black with pine-needle-green leaves, splashed with shadow. Their roots are exposed, crawling along the ground and its gray grass like squirming snakes. The real oddity, Charles thinks, is the apples. The apples in Heaven are a shiny gold, thin skin giving way to a creamy colored, crunchy meat.

These Other apples range from a blinding vermillion to a deep, nearly black maroon. Charles doesn’t know what color they are inside; he’s never seen a daemon come to eat one; just the occasional deer, not a tawny brown, but a light charcoal, eating too far away to really tell. His eyes shift slowly along, trying to peer into the dark, when he hears a startling burst of singing.

‘ _Es tanzt ein Bi-Ba-Butzemann_

_In unserm Haus herum, didelum!_

_Es tanzt Bi-Ba-Butzemann In unserm Haus herum_!’

The words are clipped yet silky, with the teasing, playful tune of a child’s lullaby or nursery rhyme, but it sends a shiver of fear down Charles’ spine. Something sung in a voice like cold velvet, deep and gravelly, shouldn’t be so light or childlike. It’s bone chilling. A pause, and, as if sensing Charles’ discomfit, a deep, surprisingly masculine voice laughs from behind the Barrier before continuing; the high, siren-like notes flow in the air, at odds with the song’s guttural words; Charles believes that the language was spoken often in Germania.

‘ _Er bringt zur Nacht dem guten Kind, Die Äpfel die im Säcklein sind...!_

 _Es tanzt ein Bi-Ba-Butzemann In unserm Haus herum_!’

It ends in more laughter, and this time Charles sees a man, flitting through the wood in dark red, almost purple robes, pale feet barely seeming to touch the ground. Despite himself, Charles scoots closer, until he’s almost touching the shimmering barrier. A flash of red is his only warning.

He yelps, scrabbling backward in alarm and surprise when the mystery figure appears in front of him, face shadowed by his hood, his body hidden behind magenta robes, excepting his feet, pale and thin, angular in shape. Kind of beautiful, as far as feet go. His toes press into the black soil of the Other.

“Engels should know better than to spy on the Other so closely,” says the dark figure. His words are lilting, but cut with the fierce, clipped accent. “They could see something they shouldn’t.” Charles huffs, and gets up, brushing some dirt off his white tunic.

“I wasn’t spying! I’m… curious is all. I’d like to know more about the Other, what it’s like. Nothing so silly as spying. Maybe all I want is a little… excitement.”

His bright eyes, sky blue threaded with aquamarine, stare back at the shadow defiantly, sparkling with their purity. The shadow shifts, and from concealing sleeves appears thin, almost spidery hands, long and bony; slender, for a man’s hands. They pull back the man’s hood; no, the daemon’s hood. Charles has always wondered what daemons looked like; did they appear human, like him, or like monsters, with horns and tails like everyone else claims? He’s about to find out.

When the hood is pulled back, it seems only natural to Charles to gasp in this daemon’s presence. He has an angular, square face with a long, straight nose, and high, hollow cheekbones. An angel would be terribly ugly, being as thin as this daemon, but he’s beautiful; the gauntness, the not-quite-emaciation, it gives him a sharp look, an edge Charles has never witnessed but for burning, battle-hungry Michael. He’s something strong and dangerous, with the pointed ears, teeth, the short, curving antlers.

What little light there is in the Other strikes his neat hair, light enough to be blonde, dark enough to have brown. But his eyes, they are the most distinct: large, like some fish’s, rimmed by dark blonde lashes, irises a haunting, cold green-grey, containing sparkles of hazel and rusty orange, a ring of deepest green lining each; jewels of the oceanic kind, they radiate desire with a cold light. His eyes are now half-lidded, the expression inquisitive, leering even, to an extent.

But it’s not meant, Charles feels, his face just has an air of lasciviousness; it’s not something the daemon is doing on purpose. Devoid of a smile, he is ethereal, floating on the borders of divine perception, rotted through to the core of everything lovely, a decaying wreck holding the gems of all the seas…

And then Charles blinks, and he’s looking at the same daemon, but he’s now as normal looking as Charles himself; handsome, fierce, but otherwise, what unnatural beauty Charles saw has now, somehow, disappeared. Except for the eyes, that is. He blinks, and opens his mouth to mention this when the daemon laughs softly, showing a straight row of dagger teeth, teeth that belong in some predatory fish, a shark, not a man.

“I apologize, Engel, I forget to reign in my charm. It’s not often I run into someone so taken by it.”

“Charm? What do you mean? Like, you…” Charles stares at this daemon, open mouthed, flushed.

“You mean to say you made me see what… what I saw when you lowered your hood?”

“Smarter than you look. Have a name? I take it you’re not a Seraph, or one of the Powers, Virtues. I would have heard of you.”

“N-No, I’m not,” Charles says, mildly chagrined as he tells the truth. “I’m just an angel, a messenger and helper to those on Earth. The name I was given is Charles.”

The daemon looks him over, mouth straight and impassive as before, but he nods approvingly. “Means a free man, a warrior. You may not look it… But it fits. Seems there is more to you than meets the eye.” The daemon sighs, tilting back his head, arching a long, coiled neck, pale and smooth looking as old porcelain.

“Then again, isn't that the way of all things?” His robes begin to almost disintegrate, like ash under a breeze, a mist in the mountains on Earth.

“Wait!” Charles cries, pressing his hands against the barrier, promptly drawing them away, his palms a shiny pink. ‘ _Charles you idiot, everyone knows not to touch the Barrier like that! You could have been burned, badly, and for what? A little illegal fun? The daemon probably won’t even tell you his--_ ’

“Erik, Engel Charles,” he says quietly, his footsteps already fading into the dark wood, the trees shifting their dark leaves. “Call me Erik.”

Charles eyes fly open, he never noticed that he’d closed them, and he smiles, big and bright. “Erik! I hope we meet again! Come see me, here!” Charles watches as Erik the daemon leaves in silence, the only proof of his ever being there the warmth of growing affection in Charles’ cheeks.


	2. The Veil Of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be ready for some serious head canon of mine (in which Erik is a sexy siren kinda demon, but he's so sweetles.) I don't even know if it makes sense, but, it's my head canon.  
> I'm so happy people have enjoyed the first chapter. Hopefully I don't let you down with this one. I don't own anything but the story, so enjoy!

* * *

After a restless, disappointingly perfect night full of stars, Charles walks to the same spot, dressed in a much shorter tunic, a gauzy, flowing material the color of robin’s eggs.

He flops down onto the grass, hand holding his chin, free fingers twiddling with grass blades. He looks up at the shifting, ancient trees, blooming and dropping apples at a steady pace. They fall with a puff of black dust as they hit the earth. He sees one of the Other deer, light charcoal riddled with black spots like bullet holes or plague, trotting over to eat a fallen apple.

They are warier, more flighty than their Heavenly counterparts, but Charles stays especially still, so it does not flee. When it starts to eat, Charles watches with rapt nausea and surprise. Inside, the flesh looks like a slab of fresh lamb, some deep, glossy red meat, or watermelon. The juice flows over its light muzzle thickly, like blood. It makes him a bit sick just watching. It looks at him gently with deep maroon eyes, swaying its glowing ivory antlers, as if to say,

‘ _You wouldn't understand, Angel-Bait. Go back. Go back to Heaven where you belong._ ’ But then, he hears it: a faint song, a kind of humming with no words.

Low, simmering through the air as sure as the hushed silence before a thunderstorm. Charles sits up, waiting, wings unfurling in a burst of white light, soft and curving just past his hips. He moistens his lips, full, pink, unbeknownst of his watcher from the shadows, watching the benevolent glow of his face, the sparkle in his innocent eyes, the color he hates and loves; the smooth, white skin of his slender body, wrapped in the tunic.

Charles sees Erik emerge from the trees, and it’s almost scary, how he seems to melt away from them to approach in sinful red, a kind of wrap-around robe of the Greeks, pinned at the shoulder with a simple silver snake, coiled to eat itself in an eternal circle. But Charles isn't all that afraid; he’s excited. He observes jealously, quietly, how Erik goes to pat the deer, and it lets him, nuzzling into his hand.

His eyes find Charles, and he can feel himself blushing. Really, he’s very attractive for a daemon.

“Charles, it’s nice to see you.”

“Mutual, Erik. I was afraid you wouldn't show up.”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world my Engel friend.”

Charles hesitates, words perched on his tongue, ready to fly from his lips. ‘ _Who said we were friends?_ ’ He doesn't say this because he already knows the answer. Instead he says, “Are you just saying that, or do you mean it? I think I’d be crushed if you did not.” He’s blushing again, nervously chewing on his lip; his leg moves to brush the other, revealing another smooth expanse of skin along his thigh, milky white, unblemished. Erik considers him, fish eyes roving over him, unsmiling.

“Let me sing you a song?”

Charles nods, blinking his wide blue eyes in pleased expectation. Erik closes his own, and again, that odd energy comes into the air. He parts his lips, and light pours forth: honeyed wine from a pool surrounded by frozen corpses; from a place where one finds something precious in a beautiful---but foreboding---dark wasteland.

‘ _Ego dominus tuus, Vide cor tuum;_

_E d'esto core ardendo, Cor tuum,_

_Egli, paventosa, Umilmente pascea._

_Appreso, gir lo ne vedea piangendo._

_La letizia si convertia In amarissimo pianto._

_Io sono in pace, Cor meum._

_Io sono in pace: Vide cor meum._ ’

Charles dares not breathe, but gasp, soft and easy as the beat of a dragonfly’s wing, brief and full of delight. His mouth quivers around the words as Erik looks away, looking as close to smiling, if pensively, as he’s seen him; his strange fish-like eyes are glittering as Charles’ own eyes do in joy.

“I-I am your master; see your heart. And of this burning heart…Y-Your heart…”

“He, trembling, obediently eats. Weeping, I saw him depart from me. Joy is converted to bitterest tears…” Erik whispers, slowly making his way almost flush against the Barrier. Charles closes the distance, craning his head as if to kiss him, wishing it could be so in that one moment, feeling an unknown ache within, as if he had been lying in a long slumber, now awakened by this unholy daemon with fair eyes, from ten, twenty, a hundred, a thousand years of deathly sleep by his voice alone.

“…I am in peace, my heart. I am in peace: see my heart…” Charles finishes, hushed, feeling his own body tremble, quake softly with the energy still swimming in the air. He can see Erik is the same, lost to the magnificence of it, drowning in the silent beauty left behind. He can see a kind of longing in the man’s face, how it softens his edges and makes him something real; not a creature fiery with holiness and caustic with light, or shadowy in darkness and beckoning with seductive impurity; this, this look, it makes Erik something Charles can hold forever and never let go, never fearing the fires of the Other or even the fires of Heaven.

“Nothing good ever came of a union between our kind, Charles. The Watchers of Heaven descended down to Earth to lie with human women, and created nephilim as a result. Lucifer was most beloved by God, and in his jealousy towards His unending love with Humanity, waged a war in Heaven itself, and was thrown from there, with all his Others, creating this place of mine.” Erik’s expression holds such pain, such anguish, that Charles cannot help but ache with his plight as well, because he understands why they shouldn't be doing or feeling what they are.

“And from the union of Engel and Daemon, there came the Eldritch, beautiful as all the men of Earth, but with souls colder than the Eternal Prison of Lucifer; they are creatures whose only desire is Death.” He smiles, bitter and sad, a secret smile Charles wishes to rid him of if he’s able. “What strange and terrible places Fate leads us, through such deadly passages…”

“I don’t care, Erik. So can you please stop talking in riddles so I can try to kiss you?”

“Direct, aren't you Charles?” this said dryly.

“I wouldn't be wearing this if I wasn't,” Charles retorts, pinching the gauzy material of his semi-transparent tunic, decorated with beads of blue and pale turquoise, between forefinger and thumb. Inside, he immediately winces. He never says the right things when he is nervous. Erik glances but once, as if really seeing the garment for the first time, and wrinkles his nose in blatant disapproval. Charles frowns, and looks down, wondering what exactly is wrong with it.

‘ _Is it too short? He seems the type to enjoy a little friskiness. Oh no… does he think sex is all I’m after? Dear Lord in Heaven I hope not, that would be--_ ’

“The tunic is very nice, Charles,” Erik says, motioning that it is so. “I just, the color, it, does things to my eyes. I don’t like blues. Or greens. It is why I avoid mirrors.”

His words are halting, uncomfortable. Charles doesn't know whether to be offended or wait for more of an explanation.

‘ _That’s a little hypocritical, now isn't it? What nerve._ ’

“I don’t like water either; lakes, ponds, the oceans and seas; even bottled water makes my skin prickly. And birds; their wings…”

Charles has the good graces not to look at his own wings, feathered and white, shaped just like a dove’s; he doesn't see Erik’s wings, if he has any at all.

‘ _Perhaps he is jealous._ ’

“Why? Is it some sort of phobia, Erik?” He realizes too late that this was probably insensitive. 

“…They remind me of God,” he says, shrugging down his robes to his waist, revealing a lean, muscled torso, pale as the rest of him and perfect. Long, corded arms are exposed, red silk pooling at his elbows. Charles is once again swept away by his fey gorgeosity.

He turns... and Charles stares, amazed and all at once is swept with primordial terror.

It’s like the stories say, of that dark Prince, who they say planted the seeds of Sodom and Gomorrah in the hearts of the strongest men, that cold lover of Lilith: you will see a perfect expanse of pale skin, unbroken but for a black-purple snake, curled around a magenta sword on the back of the muscular neck, like a brand.

You’ll count one, two, three pairs of wings down the back, from mid-back to shoulder-blades. Seraph wings, the wings of the upper echelon of God’s Angels stained with Sin, a deep purple-black, like belladonna blooms.

You’ll see they are scaly, with random, molting patches of obsidian feathers, feathers they say can curse and bring Death to daemon and angel alike…

“I meant to show you the day we met.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I had to compulsively research a lot on the specifics, because that's what I do when I write about alternative universes. Hopefully, it made sense, oops and sorries for any inconsistencies. Feel free to comment, give advice, I'm new here, so don't be shy. I'm so grateful for all the positiveness here already! So, 'till next time!


	3. Past Mistakes and Present Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more world building for you, and a portent of things to come. Hope you enjoy the read! Again, I don't own anything but this story. Shout out to Mothy for the inspiration for the objects of the sins. Man, I love poor Erik, but I love to torture him. *Foreshadowing*

* * *

“… You’re a Prince of the Other.” Charles’ voice is soft and calm, even, to the point of monotone.

“Yes.”

“Prince Asmodeus… Prince of the Second Circle, Lust, who tempts all to abandon reason to their bodies’ desires, who also sows the seeds of vengeance and vindication. Last of the First Fallen.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me, that first day?” Lord in Heaven, was it only yesterday? He felt as if he’d known Erik since the dawn of time. Maybe he did, and this was Fate’s own sick, secret gag reel, a movie to be reset and reset for all time. His skin is clammy with nervous cold, then, from deep within, a fierce bloom of heat, of irrevocable assurance.

“Perhaps I was curious. Perhaps I was lonely, with only the deer and the trees for company.” Erik breaks off, his expression gone sorrowful and guilty, repentant.

“I've been tending this orchard for a long time now, Charles. I feel alone, but I know it isn't justification for me to have deceived you as I did, care for you as I do. You may leave and never see me again if that is what you wish.”

“You stupid, idiot daemon,” Charles says cheerfully, tearing up even thinking of leaving his new friend and tentative lover-in-declarations, “you’ll be begging me to leave once you spend a few decades with me. I… feel a connection to you, Erik, and I honestly can’t care that you’re one of the Fallen or a Prince or any of that. This hasn't changed how I feel about you. May God cast me from Heaven, I mean what I say.”

The last bit has Charles shaking inside, still afraid, but not of Erik; he holds his ground, eyes shining defiantly, bright and pure as ever, not even a fleck of copper.

It’s Erik’s turn to flush; his eyes cast down bashfully, as if ashamed, and Charles is suddenly aware Erik is very shy. “G-Good.”

It feels delicious in Charles’ ears, to hear that smooth tenor-baritone voice stutter, if just a little; it’s terribly endearing. He knows the risks, he’s heard all the stories, but the fact is, Prince Asmodeus of Luxuria isn't all the Archangels had said he was; and perhaps, that applied to everything else too.

“So why do you stay in this orchard? Are you like the ambrosia tender in Heaven?” asks Charles after they are both calmer, sitting cross-legged in the grass opposite each other.

They have discussed why the Fallen don’t increase in number _‘Only half the Archangels were created with a fatal flaw; no one knows why, but the rest are immune,_ ’ the Barrier that separates them ‘ _Michael got tired of having to send Engels to guard all the borders of the Other and the Pearly Gates_ ,’ and why the deer are the way they are in the Pit ‘ _The deer here are all the souls of those who died in violence unavenged; it is in my place to help them vindicate their deaths, then send them on to Heaven or let them stay in Hell as deer, by choice or by dictation of penance._ ’

“I suppose so; but I do not tend to the food of Engels, Charles, or daemons. No, this fruit, it is for the deer, the souls, and me alone.”

“What do the apples do? They aren’t like any I have ever seen in Heaven.”

“They all contain varying degrees of Lust. All souls are led through the Seven Circles, either at their creation or occasional re-circle; they travel through the lands of Luxuria first. Depending on which apple they pick, how much they eat, that is the degree of weakness to Lust they will possess in life.”

“Does it work that way with all the levels of the Other?”

“You mean fruit?” Erik smiles, quietly amused. Charles just rolls his eyes flippantly.

“No. Souls choose a different thing for each Sin. Lust is the apple, Pride is the mirror, Wrath is a weapon; Greed is possession, Envy is a pair of scissors, Sloth is the hour glass; and of course, Gluttony is a feast.” Charles muses on the objects and their Sins, things he had never known before now.

“Do you know them, the other Fallen, and the Archangels?”

“Of course. You forget,” Erik says, stabbing Charles with a pang of desire in his sultry gaze, “that I am as old as them, created at the same time. Those Fallen, Belphegor, Beelzebub, Mammon, Leviathan, and me, Asmodeus, and those Seraphim, Saraqael, Remiel, Michael, Uriel, Raphael, Gabriel, Raguel. Although,” Erik says wryly,

“Lucifer always claimed to be the eldest.”

“Pride, naturally,” Charles snickers, then glancing around nervously, he quickly crosses himself. This draws a laugh from Erik, immeasurably old and knowing.

“Why cross yourself, Charles? Such Fallen are too pure in their Sins to ever get past this Barrier or the Gate. You are safe, I promise.”

“And you, Erik? Can you cross into Heaven?” Charles says softly, his boyish face wide open with throbbing hope, lightness in his very being; he is a balm for Erik’s burning eyes flecked with copper.

“If I desired to, perhaps. You see, Lust is a Sin, yes, but its punishment is the most minor; why do you think that is?”

Charles shakes his head, his heart thudding so loudly that he’s unable to hear his own thoughts.

“Love is the most divine thing in all the worlds, Charles, and on Earth, Lust is its physical manifestation; they are twined hand in hand. Only in excess, it becomes Sin and parts, sometimes wholly, from Love. People become slaves to Lust, the carnality of their bodies used for much the same purpose as shallow graves: to bury the empty corpses of those Life has isolated, to cover a lost and lonely soul.” Here, Erik pauses. He then continues slowly, his eyes faraway.

“In the midnight, sometimes, I dream. I believe I was once a lost soul in the heavy, humid dark of the lusty night, turning in my own shallow grave of earth. But then, always, someone comes to dig me up. I’m afraid, though, that I will always be buried, my prophecy gone unfulfilled.”

Something sad flits over Erik’s face, and is gone, and Charles knows that it is the loneliness of which he speaks. Charles knows the emptiness, but not as Erik describes it; not as something permanent and forever and never beginning, but always was; he’s never felt a void so empty.

“I wish I could take that from you, my love,” sighs Charles, unthinking. He claps his hand over his mouth, afraid of what he’s said, because it changes everything.

Erik simply stares at him, unblinking, and from a fold in his robes, his pale hand produces a ring, braided silver topped by a round stone, clear quartz cut like a diamond. “Take this for now, Charles, and come back to this place. I’ll be waiting.”

Without so much as another word, Erik fades to ashes, scattering on an invisible wind, the ring rolling across the Barrier without any trouble to land in the grass, the clear stone winking in the light innocently, as if it did not realize it had just rolled across a Barrier that separated even the light of Heaven and the Other. It was impossible, and Charles thought so, looking at the small, ordinary loop of silver. He wonders if it is perhaps enchanted; maybe cursed is the better word. He slips it, a perfect fit, on his right ring finger regardless, and decides to fly back to his home, to feel the wind in his feathers and warm the chill in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like it? Hate it? Comment, dear anon readers! I might be late on chapters this week, due to school (AAARRRGH!) but I'll try my hardest to keep updating every day. See you later, not-space readers.


	4. Auf Wiedersehen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things aren't looking up for our heroes at present, but later, they'll be better off. AKA, sorry this was so short, I'll be doing the next chapter soon. I don't own anything but the story, so have a great time reading. Oh, and if you guys didn't know, the title is "Goodbye," or, "Until We Meet Again."

* * *

 

He lies in his soft white bed, restless, twisting the band of silver round and round, the motion much like his thoughts: a confusing, twisting river that goes around without an end. He thinks of Erik, and the sadness, the being lost and alone he saw in his eyes, beautiful as they were.

He wonders if he had indeed been one of those wayward souls, without a purpose in life, and so turned to secret vice and brief warmth in the night.

Charles turns on his side, staring at the ticking of the small clock on the nightstand. Just three hours ago, he’d called him lover. All the words, they equated to a profession of love, and he’d acted as if it’d been a curse he hadn't meant to say. His heart twists, embarrassment and regret mingling in his chest. It hurts, and he hasn't felt hurt in a long while; ages and ages ago, it seems, and it was. He decides he doesn't like it.

He decides he’ll say his prayers early, and rise again in the morning to leave just as soon. For Erik, and no one else.

 

At first light, Dawn just peeking over the horizon with her rosy fingers and crown of gold, Charles waits again for the third time. He thinks about the number three, thin washes of memory painting his thoughts with pictures of children’s tales. He’s afraid he will be visited by Misfortune, the downfall of many a man. Again, he watches the deer, gnawing on their apples of spiced, spiked blood with a sickening fervor. He wonders if they too were lost ones, like Erik.

He wonders if he is at risk of Falling, now that he’s aligned himself with such evil. ‘Chaotic neutral,’ he chides himself, shaking his head. If a dark creature, Erik has a purpose, one that keeps the balance between good and evil, so he is not a totally evil being, just a servant to it.

Truly, though, could such a beautiful and seemingly kind thing be evil? Charles hopes not. Here, he waits anxiously; the sun rises to its peak, a golden sphere at mid afternoon, illuminating blue skies. Still, Erik does not come. Charles waits with growing concern, the sun descending past the trees, the blue melting into tints of yellow, pink, orange; the deep purple of twilight, the dark red of dusk. Still, Erik does not come. Something does, though. Right across the Barrier, it trots to halt in front of him, a great ebony haired stag, antlers of silver gleaming in the fading light. It bends its great neck to a bewildered Charles, a bow of reverence.

On one of the antler tines, a piece of parchment is tied. Charles nearly rips it off in his haste, and quickly unrolls it, the prickle of tears in his eyes threatening to overflow into a burn as the creature departs to whence it came; the ring Erik had given him is still on his finger, winking in the dying light. His slight fingers tremble as he reads the note.

_Charles: If you have received this letter, then I have already been exiled from the Garden of Luxuria, and have been stationed somewhere on Earth or the Last Circle. Archangel Michael has heard of our affiliation through unknown sources, and has punished me accordingly: he has stripped me of all summoning charms, transportation runes, and most of my memories; worse still, I cannot escape wherever I am until my tenure is served. It is three reincarnation cycles, random in length. I told him you had nothing to do with me, so you need not worry about being cast out or being tried for treason. Keep the ring I gave you, please; no matter the time or place, it will glow when I am near to you, as will my darkly dreaming heart. I’m sorry things had to be this way, Charles; I just want you to know that you are the brightest part of my existence and I love you, my dear, no matter the circumstances. Ich liebe dich, mein Liebling.  If you have any sense of self preservation, burn this note._

_With Love,_

_Erik_

He holds the paper, his nose picking up the smell of sulfur and dried tea roses, the old kind in Victorian gardens mingling with the burnt heads of matches. It hits him that this is the first time he’s been able to smell Erik; he can imagine the pale, spidery fingers, shaking as he wrote this final farewell, an ink splotch the indicator of a fare too high to pay for any gift of love. It’s a hurtful thing, to smell someone for the first time through a ghost of ink and paper, to know that it will be the last, not just the first. Charles cries, sobs wracking his chest. It feels like someone is throttling him; his tears miss the paper, and he’s glad; he wouldn’t forgive himself if the writing became blurred.

He holds himself, no other arms there to offer him comfort, and he vows to himself he’ll find Erik again, no matter the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, things are escalating pretty quickly, but I never was all that great at pacing; it's either too long or too fast, but it'll work itself out eventually. Just gotta get into the present time period. SO. Comment, give me feedback 'cause I'm new to this place. Thanks to all the readers and kudos-givers out there, anon or no anon. See you later today!
> 
> Last Circle- Where Satan lives.  
> The ring- inspiration comes from Howl's Moving Castle. Yeah, you know the one.  
> Garden of Luxuria- Where Erik used to live until his resent exile. (We'll be meeting the new gardener soon enough. Er, maybe not, I haven't decided.)


	5. Heaven Sent Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay, many character intros in the next few chapters, as well as the rating going up. Honestly, it's not very high right now, but we'll steadily be going up due to language, non-con thingies, and, you guys know the drill. Sorry this is so short, but there will be many more juicier chapters. I don't own anything but the story, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

The next day is empty, even when connecting the heart strings of mortals together with tenderness and romance, looking down on Earth.

It only reminds him of his own severed strings. ‘ _No_ ,’ he thought, allowing himself a ration of his now scarce hope, ‘ _not severed; lost. But not forever.’_

As he weaves the strands of a newly wed couple together, he feels hands on his shoulders, small yet strong and callused. “Hello, Raven.”

“Hey Charles,” she replies easily, moving to sit beside him. He glances over quickly, his bleeding heart soothed slightly by the sight of her strong, glowing form and short, pointed white wings. She’s the most special one of the two of them, with an ability angels covet with secrecy and hidden envy.

She has a chameleon soul, no fixed image. Today, as most days, she has chosen blonde hair, like honey, curled softly. Her skin is pale, and her curves are those of a beautiful Rubens. She has blue eyes, a constant with whatever identity she chooses, a nod to their kinship not just in smiles and arm punching. Now she is scowling at him, pink lips pouting in the irritated way that she has.

“You've been really down lately, Charles,” she says, eyes fixated on his face, stony and trying desperately not to break down and lead to him falling into her arms.

“So cut the crap and tell me what’s going on?” Charles just shrugs, and says noncommittally,

“I've been having trouble sleeping is all; residual bad dreams from my Other life. I've already been to Hank, and he said they would go away soon enough.”

Raven sighs noisily, moving closer not to hit him this time, but to throw an arm around his shoulders, so soft looking at first glance, but rippling with untapped power. “Charles, I’m your sister; I have been living with you since our Other lives. So that means we've been living together for…?”

“Fifty years; I know, Raven.”

“Then tell me what in the Lord of Heaven is going on with you. You don’t think I can’t see the droop in your wings? The way you mope and hide in your room like I don’t exist? The way you’re actually walking around?” She frowns, and says quietly, “You've started to talk in your sleep again.”

Charles doesn't speak; just finishes his weaving, and looks down at his hands. Sometimes, he wants to scream at her for being so perceptive. Like now. He forgot the ring, and quickly tries to hide it.

“Hey, whatcha got there, huh?” Raven asks, her words lighter, the subject, mercifully, dropped. At least, it makes her good at her job.  She is a Ruler, an angel whose job is to look after a set of people, to give men blessings, to teach them the arts and science. In essence, Raven is a glorified teacher, if angelic. Still; it is more than can be said of Charles’ station, but he doesn't mind. He will never have the mental fortitude and unflinching sense of duty his sister has; he has, and will be, content to be the messenger.

“Nothing, just a ring,” he says quietly, the blush already staining his cheeks. Raven gives him her, ‘You really think you’re fooling me?’ look, and Charles laughs for the first time since Erik was taken from him. He loves Raven for being there when he is weak.

“It’s, uh, it’s a gift from a friend,” he says, smiling.

“Who? Someone I know?” Raven asks, bending closer to examine the stone. “It’s really pretty; almost like a diamond.”

“Yes, yes it is. Er, it’s not from someone you know. I met him only a few days ago.”

“Oh, a new soul? What’s his name?” She smiles wryly, and adds, “I can see you like him.” Charles looks at her, taken aback.

“His name is Erik. How can you tell?” he asks incredulously.

“It’s all in your eyes, brother. You haven’t looked this happy in a long time. So, is Erik a jeweler?” Her smile is full of excitement, and that thing no brother ever wants: sisterly mischief.

“Why do you ask that?” He tries pointedly to ignore the totally justified smugness in her voice.

“The ring he gave you; a guy like that… I sense a lot of love went into it, and not just because of my power. Look at the carving, the delicate work of the roses on top; it’s gorgeous, handmade too. You don’t make a ring that pretty unless you know what you’re doing and it’s for someone special.”

Charles looks down, and his eyes widen in astonishment; the ring, so simple when he had last glanced at it, has changed; the simple silver band is now wreathed in silver roses and vines, blooming around the gem, as if to say, ‘ _I’m alive._ ’ Charles feels like bursting into tears, but he doesn't, lest Raven should become more suspicious.

He doesn't need any more questions where Erik is concerned.  He excuses himself softly, and flies away, leaving his confused sister in his wake.


	6. At The Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven to dire measures, Charles gets an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything but the story, and I also am not good with notes. -___- Oops. Anyway, have a good time reading!

* * *

 

He ends up, he supposes, in the only place he could have; the place shaded by an oak, where the grass dulls from its bright, summer time green; the place where he and Erik first met, only four days ago now. He sits in the grass, his tunic a pool of white around him. He looks down at his ring sadly, and then suddenly, he sees pale feet, pressed into the dark soil of the Other. It seems as if the Other is thrown in even darker shadow, and he raises his eyes to see the source, apprehension in his skin.  
His breath hitches in his throat, and a soft cry is all that can come out. A name. “Erik…!”  
And it’s true, he’s there, tall and thin and happy, his fish eyes glittering as light dancing on the surface of the ocean.

“Erik, I’m so happy you’re here, where have you…?” His words die in his throat as he realizes that it’s not Erik standing there, happy and content; it’s how he saw him the day he said he loved him. Erik would have been ecstatic to see him, would've been alive and not frozen like…  
Charles backs away from the apparition, fearful and nauseated, quickly crossing himself.

A swirl of black, oily, thick smoke, comes close to the Barrier, and is stopped by it, thank the Lord in Heaven. It coalesces into a man, tall and older looking, with dark, sandy colored hair swept back from a high, light forehead.  
The lines around his icy eyes don’t smile, and his mouth is thin, pressed into a grin that makes Charles’ skin crawl.  
“Hello, Charles, it seems we meet sooner than I expected.”  
“Who are you? What have you done to my memories?” His feathers ruffle in fright, but he remains calm, determined not to show his feelings in his face.  
“Not to worry, Charles. Your memories are not tampered. I simply pulled one out for you to see.” His robes are black, but strangely illuminated, as if from some red light from beneath the earth.

And it hits Charles, like an icy bucket of water, that he’s talking to Lucifer. The Devil himself.

“And please,” he says, interrupting Charles’ thoughts, “call me Sebastian.”  
The man, Devil, whoever he is, notices him still staring at the memory ghost of Erik, and he grins, small teeth square in shape and loathsome to look at. He glides over, light, almost translucent hand caressing Erik’s face in the manner of a lover.

“Beautiful, isn't he? I've always had an eye for beauty, and he is the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. But that’s not what I came to talk to you about.”  
It infuriates Charles, to see this foul being touching even the memory of Erik. His pale hands clench.

“You…!” He’s about to hurl a loaded insult, but then he’s dizzy; he feels like his eyes are burning, pulsating. When he calms, it’s over, his head clear as a bell. Sebastian smiles and tsks, shaking his head as his wormy fingers pet Erik’s face.  
“You would do best to be careful, little angel, Falling is quite a nasty process. And you, my dear, are very, very close.”  
He looks Charles up and down in blatant amusement, and all Charles can do is quiver in silent anger.

“Never would have pegged you for a Fury, but you’re a whole package of surprises… Aren't you? Now, I came here to show you what you have lost,” he motions to the visage of Erik, “and to make a proposition to get it all back. See, I like beauty, kid, and you’re not bad looking, not at all; so I’m going to offer you a special deal. An indenture-ship, so to speak. If you agree to spend the foreseeable future with me, wherever I go; at the end of it, you’ll be able to see your Erik again.”

Charles breathing slows, and his heart thuds loudly in his throat, threatening to burst.

His eyes find Erik’s, and even in memory, they are startling in their purity in that one moment, and Charles knows what he has to do. Going rogue is dangerous, but not nearly as dangerous as Falling. And Charles is afraid that, if he stays in Heaven, that that is precisely what will happen without seeing Erik at least one more time. So he takes a deep breath, prays desperately for God to forgive him, and says shakily, “Alright. You have a deal.” (What better reason is there to Sin than for love?)

  
“Ah-Ah,” Sebastian tuts, beckoning Charles’ forward. “Now what’s an agreement…” he holds out his hand, “without a handshake?”  
Charles is unsure what will happen, but he does as he is implied to do despite his better judgement; he hesitantly reaches across the Barrier, and finds no pain this time; but as Sebastian grabs his hand, it stings, like sticking his hand in a wasps’ nest.

Charles would scream, but his vision is dark, dark, everything gone, very abruptly… black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why I do this? I don't know, either. What will happen next? Well, we'll all see in the next chapter. Neither of the guys has very good luck, though. Thanks to all the readers out there! Peace.


	7. New Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where I make Erik's lives Hell, and I actually do feel bad about it. That, and most of canon decides to walk out a hundred story high window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, as was stated, canon is biting a big dirt sandwich; most of it, anyway, for the rest of the story. Yay, Erik's back!  
> But then I make him miserable. By default, it must be tragic, because when does Erik get a good life?  
> ..If I bungled, please, someone be the responsible guest and tell me I bungled. X3  
> Thanks to all the readers out there, really; I don't own anything but the story, so read and enjoy.  
> Also, dark, non-con clouds ahead, but not yet. But! Warnings for non-explicit mentions of Auschwitz, medical experimentation, underage prostitution, and me just being terrible because I need Erik kind of damaged, as he is wont to be in any universe he is in.

* * *

The sky overhead is dark, the wind howling something like a lament as Erik nears the large mansion with his old pack by his side, the building surrounded like some ominous deity, not yet close enough for details, by the forest pines and oaks. He is a little guilty about the gale, as it has already caused a great amount of agitation and fear in the townspeople nearby; he can’t help his unwanted influence of the wind, especially when he’s moody.

It’s just another day in the life of one Erik-Magnus-Eisenhardt-Lehnsherr, a life that has been recycling itself for the last hundred years. He hasn't lived to see forty in either of his lives, and he doesn't expect this one to be any different. When Michael said three hundred years of reincarnation punishment, what he probably meant was thirty or so years with each punishment, each worse than the last. Which, to be honest, have taught him more than any three hundred.

‘ _Three, three…_ ’ thinks Erik irritably, striding up the dirt path until the mansion is as hulking and despondent as it really is, no longer a dark smudge through the treeline. ‘ _What the hell is it with Michael and threes?  They're worse than cannibal puns…  Angels have a shitty sense of humor._ ’

The first time it happened, it had been a good one, for at least the first twelve years; he had grown up in Prussia as a normal citizen, a place he had always wanted to see in his former-former life, his Other life. His family, the Jewish Hirsches, was very kind to him. They gave him the name Magnus after the Duke of Saxony, and he knew it to be a strong, sturdy name. He remembered crying a lot after his mother died, and his father went insane only a year after, leaving him destitute at the age of thirteen, to find a way in life all on his own.

 The city wasn't forgiving of orphans, and he often found much needed solace sleeping by the docks, listening to the lapping of the cold water, despicable as it was to look at.  

He was able to help unload cargo every once and awhile from the ships coming back over the Baltic too, so he kept himself from starving.  Sometimes, however, when death was but a freezing night or two away and there was no other work to be found, he would do what he had to; what he could and knew he could better than anything: he used his charm, that mysterious aura that once cloaked him without thought.  It drew the nightly wanderers as honey draws bears.  Burning with shame every time he accepted the coins and crumpled bills, he felt like he had pulled some dirty trick, using his power in such a way.  He was reminded again of his Other life.

His misfortune, however, was not yet over: his thirtieth birthday just so happened to be around the same time as the Austro-Prussian War and, being the supportive, I’ll-Die-For-That-Cause bastard that he is, he had went to war for his country only to end up being slain by a pompous looking Austrian cavalry officer.

And then... there came the next life, the worst cycle yet: he was born to a Jewish couple in nineteen twenty-eight; their names were Jakob and Edie Eisenhardt, and they named him Max. He had loved them with all that was left of his brittle heart, only to have it and his happier memories smashed, perhaps beyond repair, by the time he was sixteen years old, in nineteen forty-four.

By that year’s end, he saw all the terrors and creatures that stalked the night; things of humanity to hate, things to burn with a smile and dance around their pyres. Erik’s memory spares him no dark detail; the humiliation of the camps; the constant, crippling fear of the good doctors who would give you candy if they could inject you with anthrax or remove a limb to see if they could reattach it; the cruel, twisting agony of having to throw your own parents’ emaciated corpses into the crematorium; never before had he such a passionate, all-consuming hatred for God than then.

Death was no stranger, but he never saw the gruesome mask he wore in war.

Erik shakes his head, pushing the memories away, down into the abyss where he never goes. He adjusts the sliding strap of his pack back onto one of his narrow, broad shoulders. The cold wind screams around him, buffeting the coal-colored trees into submission as he walks up the drive, greeted by a solemn and dreary porch, stately columns reaching skyward.

It's beautiful, in its own ancient, secretive way; like an old woman with haggard teeth and grey, wrinkly skin. It is no wonder why the locals never come here anymore.

It's the perfect hideaway for a mob boss.

Erik ignores the two guards outside, burly looking men in suits with comm links, four forty-five caliber handguns, and knives for good measure, hidden in their suits and shoes. When he sees one’s fingers twitch, he doesn't react; merely keeps walking, putting his hands in his trench’s pockets. He enters the mansion with no trouble. As his boot touches the inside flooring, he hears wet thuds, like watermelons hitting a wooden floor, and grins, sharp teeth glinting in the twilight.

Navigating the twisting corridors of the downstairs portion of the old mansion, he begins to hear the hints of voices.  Tiredly, he follows the sound of murmurs until he reaches the right room.  In the room, he hears a woman, and three or four men; he can’t tell precisely.  Michael had taken much of his power that last day in Luxuria, and it has only lessened through the years, lost little by little.  

He raps softly on the dark oak door, and the murmurs quiet.  A voice, smooth yet gravelly, like a young former smoker’s, calls, “Who knocks?”

“The lily in the serpent,” he answers, combing his now blonde hair back from his forehead with his fingers, the longer bangs falling back.  He doesn't bother to smooth his trench coat or slacks.  The door opens, and light floods the dark hall.


	8. The Hellfire Syndicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik is tired, the Hellfire Club is now a crime syndicate if it wasn't already, and Shaw is really, really creepy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologizing in advance for Shaw's description. Tried to look at Kevin Bacon's face, couldn't do it. His face scares me irrationally. I'm sure he's not a bad person, but, yeah, his face is crazy scary, even when he's happy. Also, I forgot to tag some characters, so just, ignore those. I'm starting to really warp canon, and I might do crazy things. Like making Emma Frost totally unlikable, yeah. I don't own anything but the story; you know the drill.

* * *

The door opens, and light floods the dark hall. He steps inside, and a man closes it. His hair is coal black, swept away from his face, revealing the high widow’s peak; his eyebrows are pointed, as is his thick goatee. His skin is tanned with a reddish tint, and it brightens the greenish blue eyes peering out from the craggy yet smooth face. He is dressed all in black. Erik senses something different about him, but he can’t place it. He looks around the luxurious room and its current inhabitants.

Another man stands next to the leather couch, dressed in a metallic blue-grey suit, with olive skin and brown, wavy hair down to his shoulders; his fingers move constantly in a swirling motion, Erik notes.

The woman he instantly dislikes. Aside from the belief he has that most beautiful women are trouble, he can see that just by looking at this one: her platinum blonde hair ripples like something alive down her full breasts, pale and soft as snow. Her aristocratic face is sheer and cold, the ice chips of her eyes the lightest tints of cobalt blue, wide with false innocence. Her corset top barely covers her ample chest; it exposes her thin stomach, the white miniskirt; her long legs ending in stilettos, curtained by the soft white fur of her cape. Definitely trouble, definitely vain. Erik sees her smirk at him as she leans against the back of the couch like a woman in a bordello. It is a smile he knows all too well, and he stiffly clears his throat. Instantly, her pale-painted lips are sullen, perhaps even insulted.

The man on the couch is the greatest mystery, however; his pale, elfin features are stern and hollow, his sandy brown hair swept back from his face; his shirt is red, the tie black, the suit black as well. The thin lips quirk up in a biting smile. It’s both irritating and unnerving, but Erik isn't nervous. He just makes a bit of a bow, as a show of respect. “Good, Mr. Lehnsherr, you made it to our little hideout. The journey wasn't too rough, I hope?” this man asks, the growl in his voice easy to place.

“Not at all, Mr. Shaw. I had a fairly easy time locating the building, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Which actually translates to ‘Let me go to bed. I spent two days straight out of the ten you gave me to track this place down in record time so you wouldn't fire me; so, let me sleep, you prick.’

He can’t help being flippant, he’s really feeling tired. Curse his weak human needs. The thin man laughs, and the woman cringes, as if she wants to spit on Erik at the soonest available time. “That’s good, good; I like a little fire in my employees, Erik.” A sultry note in his voice, and it makes Erik shiver with displeasure inside. A pause. “Do you mind, if I call you that?”

“Not at all, Mr. Shaw,” he tries his best to smile, but it comes out more like a cat’s face when it’s hissing, except, no hiss. The older man laughs again, and it doesn't do anything to relieve Erik’s displeasure at being awake.

“Only if you call me Sebastian. So, we've already got all the paperwork in order, signed and stamped; the money will be sent weekly to an offshore account in Geneva; now,” Sebastian leans forward, expression turned serious, and he laces his bony, claw-like hands together, “what I want to know is whether or not you remember all that your job entails.”

Erik sighs, and recites, as if from a book, “I am to be a personal guard to your lover for most of the day and half the night, if the need should arise; I am not to intrude upon your privacy when he is cloistered with you; I am to follow all orders from said lover as well as yourself, and am permitted to make short trips to town twice a week for whatever it is that I need personally; if any of the contract’s terms should be breached, my tenure as guard will be terminated.”

Sebastian smiles widely, showing perfectly white, straight, very square teeth; if Erik were a less polite person, he would grimace at the sight.

“Very good, Erik. I’m pleased, I think I have finally found the right man to tackle my Charles. Don’t say I didn't warn you though,” he sits back into the couch, “he’s a feisty one; he likes to escape into the woods as well. You’ll have to keep a close eye on him.”

Erik bows slightly again, a wan smile gracing his face. “I assure you, Sebastian, you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

Shaw nods, and he stands up, clapping his hands together.

“Now then, with all the formal shit out of the way, why don’t you meet the rest of the gang.” He motions to the black haired man, the brown haired man with the finger tic, and the woman, who still looks like she wants to spit on him. “This is Azazel, he serves as my personal guard; this is Janos Questad, one of my top enforcers in the syndicate, South American Branch; and this is Emma Frost, my personal assistant, finance manager… Secretary, if you will.” He simply laughs when Emma punches him lightly in the arm. “In addition to the crew here, there are others around the compound, but I’m sure you’ll find them ev--”

Shaw is cut off by the door banging open with a crack that makes Erik wince, that door looked like mahogany, and a gangly-limbed youth in a hoodie and jeans barging in yelling at the top of his lungs, “Mr. Shaw, you wouldn't believe what a bloody mess Dumb and Dumber made on the front steps, it’s disgusti--! Oops…”

The young man stops mid-sentence, rubbing the back of his head, looking like he’s about to make a run for it before Shaw can chastise him. Erik can actually lend his sympathy. “This is a bad time, isn't it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... Did I capture Shaw's creepy? At least, a little? Tell me with your comments and kudos, readers! :3


	9. Swimming With The Sharks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik has a monotonous life traveling all over the world, the pajamas are a lie, and Shaw is still a creepo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, apologies for Alex's characterization, I tried to get him right; and humor. I don't do humor, even though I should be able to. I do funny things, just can't write them. Also apologizing in advance for withheld future chapters, I'm gonna be really busy after tomorrow.  
> Don't forget to feed the Feedback Monster, and tell it what you think with comments and kudos. I own the story and that's it.

* * *

Shaw simply sighs loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Alex, what did I tell you about barging in on meetings?”

“To… Not to?”

“Yes. You’re lucky I was finished talking to Erik here; he’s Charles’ new guard, and I would like it if you showed him around before meeting Charles. Understand?”

An underlying threat sharpens Shaw’s voice from irritation to malice. Erik wishes the kid all the luck he can get. “Yessir, Mr. Shaw!”

Alex even snaps off a quick salute before taking Erik’s sleeve, leading him outside more quickly than he would have assumed the kid could move. He starts naming off the rooms; the kitchen, bathrooms, sitting rooms, rooms that probably had no designation but for hiding things, and the upstairs; more bathrooms, bedrooms, and Shaw’s personal suite at the end of the hall. He shows Erik his own room, the first on the left.

“Lemme know if you need anything Erik,” he says with a grin, stuffing his skinny white hands in the big pocket of his hoodie. Erik nods silently, and is about to go into his room until his mouth stops him. “What is a kid like you doing with a man like Sebastian?” He doesn't know why he does it; he just feels as if it is something he should ask. He can see the change instantly; Alex’s shoulders slump, his cheerful eyes lower, and his tone is trying to be gruff.

“First of all, I’m not a kid, I’m nineteen years old and I can make whatever decisions I want; secondly, it's none of your business.” After a moment, he says confidentially, “It’s for my little brother, Scott. I’m broke, debts to the mob, you name it. I've been in and out of New York State Penn since I was sixteen, parents killed in a plane crash when I was fourteen. Scott is still living with a friend of mine in Manhattan, as far as I know, unless they've moved; I send my pay to Sean's address to help out every month. it's not cheap taking care of a kid.  Sean is a good guy, he does right by Scott.

Alex shrugs, meeting Erik’s eyes with his own. “I’m not proud of it, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him fed and in school. He’s a good kid.”

Eriks nods in understanding, and Alex relaxes, standing tall. It’s then that Erik decides to share his utmost level of brotherhood with the teen; he punches him in the bicep, lightly. “Ow!” Alex yelps, jumping away to safely rub his arm. “What the hell was that for? What, you wanna dislocate my shoulder?”

“It’s how I express my camaraderie.” Erik smirks, and steps into his room. “You’re not bad, for a teenager.” He shuts the door with an air of finality, hears a huff of breath. “Yeah, you too, old man.” Then, louder, “I’ll come get you at dinner time!”

“Alright,” Erik mutters as the blonde’s steps recede until they are gone. He sets his pack on the floor beside his bed, opens up the clasp and drawstring; the routine is the same, whatever time or place. He withdraws his small personal trappings; blue toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, soap, old shaving kit; he had bought it in the eighteen hundreds from a master in the craft, and it still serves him well, true to the old man’s words. The thought of water still agitates him, but over the years he has gotten better about controlling the anxiety it causes him. But when offered water and wine, he always chooses the wine. He arranges them neatly along the shelf above the sink. The small bathroom is conjoined to his room, so it makes for easy passage back to his pack.

He takes out his clothes next: three t-shirts, white button ups, five turtlenecks, five pairs of slacks.

A pair of jeans, for emergencies. His two tank tops come next(he believes calling them wife beaters is demeaning,) his underwear, socks, a long silk scarf from his travels in Vienna; a pair of oxfords. At the very bottom, his weapons: an assortment of carving tools, hollow point throwing knives, a kodachi; his prized recurve bow; his collection of venoms, poisonous extracts, antidotes; the syringes for administration. A pair of lambskin gloves, his briefcase. All the things he owns in the world.

He puts them away in their proper places before getting into his flannel pajamas, and crashing like the dead onto the old canopied bed. His sleep is deep and dreamless. He wakes to see Alex shaking him.

 

“Erik, Eriiik. Dude, wake up, it’s nine o’ clock. Everyone is waiting for you.” Erik doesn’t move, frowning slightly. “There’s veal,” the teen tries.

At that, Erik stirs, groggily raising his upper body off the bed, rubbing his eyes. “Do I have to get dressed?”

“I’m not making you,” Alex snickers. “I’d honestly love to see Mr. Shaw’s face.” He walks out, but before he shuts the door, he adds, “Bring a weapon if you really want to look serious in those pajamas.”

Downstairs, the long, elegant dining table is decorated for a special occasion; the linen is pure white, decorated with crowns of elegant meat dishes, and corsages of fruit and vegetables, sculpted by the cook into flowers. Seafood pours from blue tinged glassware, arranged as they had been in life, swimming in life jackets of nori. Around the table, the Hellfire Syndicate sits in high backed chairs, the kind you look behind and expect to see a cannibalistic host. Shaw sits at the head, Azazel to his right; the left is empty. Beside Azazel, Janos, then Alex; next of the empty seat is Emma, and a woman with coppery skin and dark, sleek hair, black tattoos of dragonfly’s wings standing stark on her arms, shoulders, and back, exposed by her open, halter neck dress.

Trudging down the dark stained steps is Erik, following the spiral of the staircase. He’s clad in loose fitting flannel pajamas, pale lavender with black, thin stripes, hiding his lethal form. His feet are bare, navigating the floor with unusual grace as he twirls his bow in one hand, a handful of arrows clutched in the other. Shaw stares at Erik, an odd mixture of raging irritation, tired affection, and careful indifference mingling on his face. Emma rolls her eyes, contempt clear on her icy lips as she sips her white wine.  Alex looks as if he’s about to burst an artery with laughter, and Janos looks nervous, Azazel putting a hand on his wrist gently.

Erik just strolls in, sitting between the woman and Alex. He sets his bow by his knee, along with the arrows, and he looks up, offering his hand to the copper-skinned woman. She has very pretty eyes: a dark, sultry brown.

“Erik, the new guard. I don’t believe we have been introduced.” She smiles broadly, taking Erik’s hand with her own smaller one. Her cheeks bloom red on contact, and he’s a little embarrassed; he can’t control what is left of his charming powers that well.

“Angel Salvadore. I’m the cook and the resident maid, but,” she grins, then removes her hand, “I've also been told I have a mean mouth when provoked.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that, Angel,” he says, smiling right back. Alex bumps him with his elbow, winking at him. Erik just frowns, nudging him back as if to say, ‘She is not my type.’ Alex just shrugs, ‘Okay, but she’s cute,’ and helps himself to his steak, potatoes, and some monstrous fusion of salad and pears. Erik just asks for the veal, and it comes, red and dripping blood, not just the red wine and tomato paste marinade. He smiles as it curls languidly on his plate; cutting into it, he finds it rare, pink and beautiful. He cuts the first bite to the accompanying clatter of porcelain and silver, idle chatter and Alex being a general source of squishing noises. His lips part, and his tongue peeps out momentarily to welcome the morsel.

Chewing, Erik resists the urge to ask for the rest of the platter and moan while eating it. Instead, “You cook meat like a goddess, Angel.”

She laughs softly, a noise he knows is usually more forceful and wild. “Thank you for saying so Erik.” Forking some more of her gigantic salad, scattered with wood mushrooms, chestnuts, and wild apples, she says with a satisfied nod, “I think you and I are going to be very good friends, even if you do hang with Havok over there.”

“Not my fault I’m an accident zone, Tempest,” responds Alex, though with a mouthful of steak sounds more like “Now mawh fau In n ahhadent one, Hempes.”

Angel rolls her eyes; Erik just chuckles, spearing more cut veal with his fork. Emma, in her warmest tone, coldly asks “And where is Charles, Shaw? He shouldn’t be missing out on such an occasion as this. After all,” she eyes Erik dismissively, her dislike evident, “it’s not everyday we have a guest.”

Erik cannot fathom the reason for her intense disgust towards him, but he has known people like her before, where antagonism is second nature.

“He’s probably in my room. Azazel?” Shaw looks pointedly at the flushed man, and he shrugs, getting up from his chair with a short squeak. Heading upstairs, a knock is heard as the meal continues. A murmur, more steps. Erik’s eyes slide to the periphery out of mild curiosity; the mysterious man of the mansion is the only one Erik has not met, he is sure; it seems he will, however, be getting to know him well.


	10. (Me And A Daemon) Walking Side By Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles and Erik meet; it doesn't go over so well. That, and Alex leaves corpses where they drop because he's forgetful and kind of lazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I don't own anything but the story. Also language warning. I also feel as if I need to explain something; I can't imagine Erik as a brunette anymore, or dark haired, because Prometheus and Lawrence of Arabia happened, if you all get that. So now it's head-canon and me being confused. Also, oops with pacing and drama queen!Charles, I love him. Totes stole title from Soap&Skin's song, 'Me and The Devil.' So, enjoy!

Azazel comes back, resumes his place by Janos, his plate empty.

And when Charles rounds the corner, he catches Erik in a daze, eyes drinking in every feature. Charles is gorgeous, Erik thinks, with his curly hair, falling over his forehead in glossy, dark chestnut waves. His face has somehow retained the rounded shape of boyhood, radiant, benevolent chastity and all, yet at the same time is very dignified, despite the fact his milky pale body, lithe and small and very pretty, is covered only by a silk robe.  His face holds innocence, tainted by grieved bitterness. If not for this, he would almost call him angelic.

Immediately, Erik is deathly shy, a feeling that has not overtaken his more confidant wiles in a long time. He is not comfortable around scantily clad anything, and it proved to him years ago that the world was not without a sense of irony. His eyes slide back to his veal, or what remains of it, his heart enthralled by his face alone. Charles crosses his arms, and like a petulant child stomps over to the empty seat by Shaw and sits, his plate covered with steamed white rice and vegetables.

He forks it with indifference, chewing as if his jaw is stiff. The air has electrified, and Erik finishes the rest of his meal under what he thinks is intense scrutiny from the head of the table. Shaw clears his throat, and asks smoothly, “So, Charles, since the… incident with the last guard, I've decided to appoint a new one with several more precautions.”

Charles doesn't respond, slouching over his food. Erik studies the younger man for a moment, and asks,

“What exactly happened to my predecessor, Sebastian, if I may ask?”

Charles’ head jerks up from his plate, and instantly, his eyes are ablaze with fury at Erik’s face, and he shoves his chair back, running to the door. A moment later, a loud slam, an even louder scream. Shaw shakes his head, grits his teeth; and as he gets up,

“Couldn't be fuckin’ bothered to clean up the bodies, could you Alex? Now he’s going to have a panic attack on top of the damn tantrum.”

He glares behind his shoulder, and calls, “I’m docking you for three shifts, two grand.”

Alex cringes into his seat accordingly, and Janos gives him a sympathetic look, as does the whole rest of the table. Emma just sniffs, swirling what is left of her wine with what Erik knows is a gleeful glint in her eyes. For a little, everything is quiet, until Shaw screams, “Charles! You better get back here! Bitch, you’ll fucking regret this!” Erik winces, and gets up from his seat; tired as he is, he knows when he’s needed, and by who; shouldering his bow, he heads out barefoot, carefully avoiding Shaw’s bloodthirsty face and the equally bloody floor. The last thing he hears is Angel saying wistfully, “Help me clean up the table?”

 

Erik doesn't have to follow tracks, or scent Charles to find him; he can clearly hear his clumsy footsteps and labored breathing through the rustling of the forest leaves. His long legs race over the uneven countryside, and it makes him feel alive like nothing else, weaving through the trees as only an experienced runner can. He sees white limbs in the darkness, and he shouts, “Wait!”

Charles keeps on running, looking back at Erik with eyes wide, a frightened, desperate look he has seen in too many people, and it’s at that instance he knocks into a branch, going down with a cry of pain, scrambling away on hands and knees. He whips around to face the taller blonde man, beautiful and fierce, spitting out,

“Stop, right where you are damn it!”

Erik stops abruptly, Charles shivering in the cold, tears of embarrassment and anger flowing from his eyes, his robe splotched with mud.

Erik bends down on one knee slowly, setting his bow and arrows down. Gently, he starts to unbutton his flannel shirt, and Charles whimpers softly, the first show of fear Erik has seen from the younger man. He doesn't want him to be afraid. So he talks softly, finishing the row of buttons down his belly.

“I’m not going to hurt you. You probably hear that a lot, but I mean it. I’m tired, Charles,” he says, seeing Charles soften, the shyness as he reveals the lethal, beautiful predator beneath the benign shirt, “I would like to go to bed; but that’s only going to happen if you trust me.” He shucks off his shirt, and holds it out slowly to Charles, his eyes moist and gentle, like the warm waters of the Caribbean on a cloudy day. Charles still looks at him distrustfully, getting to his knees.

“Excuse my impudence, _Erik_ , but fuck you. As a matter of fact, I don’t trust anyone. So why don’t you just tie me up and drag me back, hm, like all the rest? Have a little fun with me first, if you’re into that? Doesn't matter any way; nothing does.  Is that what you want from me? Huh?” His British accent would be charming and sweet, but here, in the dark of a new moon’s shadow, it is full of wrath and viciousness.

Erik sighs, then throws his shirt.  “I want you to take this; no good to anyone if you catch cold.”

Charles catches it in surprise, examining the thick, clean flannel in spite of his better judgement. Erik picks up his bow and arrows, turning back in the direction of the mansion. “Where are you going?” the brunette asks, hints of suspicion still present.

“Back,” Erik replies, starting to walk. He hears the slide of fabric, and he turns his head slightly to see Charles in his shirt, the lavender darkened to a dusky heather in the shadows. His cheeks are flushed as are his full lips, his pale knees below the tunic-length material smudged with drying mud; the same goes for his hands. Erik finds it painfully endearing, the angry young man transformed before his eyes into someone he could love.

It’s a foolish thought, Erik knows; love is simply proof that, in the end of everything, God dresses up the worst of the world's tortures in the guise of Erik’s tenderest beloveds. It hurts more that way, when everything is said and done, time scattering on the wind.

He offers a hand, long and palm up. You can always tell a gentleman apart from a vagrant by the way he offers his hand. Charles, in this situation, is right. He walks forward, hesitates, then finally takes Erik’s hand, if tentatively. Erik makes no move to start walking, does not squeeze or caress as he longs to do; he asks,

“Are you alright with my holding your hand? It is dark, and I see better than most at night.  I don't want you hitting your head any more than you have already.”

Charles tilts his head, a trickle of blood dripping down his forehead, giving a sly smirk that lights up Erik's eyes and heart.

“You’re a bloody weird man, Erik.”

Erik gently leads him along, a daemonic smile hidden in the dark. “You have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 So, what you think? Comment, kudos, creatively criticize! See you sometime later!


	11. Trouble Communicating: The Relationship Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles is both a woobie and a bratty drama queen, Erik has had it, and Shaw is still a creep even in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for mean!Charles, his voice just seems to come out that way. Big thanks to Rosawyn for pointing me in a good direction for the next character, who doesn't show up until later; thank you very much also to my few loyal readers out there, and the occasional guest too. IDOA (I don't own anything.) But the story is mine. Oh, and there is the allusion towards past rape, and I did a lot of research to try and get the accurate view, I hope this doesn't offend anyone.

* * *

They see the lights, two oil lamps illuminating a portion of the porch. A figure is obscured, arms crossed, breath turning to mist in the winter wind. Charles slides closer to Erik, his small hand clutching the lukewarm skin of Erik’s arm hard enough to bruise. He glances down at the young man, shivering in his over-sized shirt, and feels sympathy; he remembers enough of his past to know what it is like to be used and hurt, memories of long nights, of short encounters with strangers all the reminders he needs.

He squeezes Charles’ hand, just to say, ‘I’m here,’ and a squeeze back is more than Erik could have asked for. He bows lightly to Shaw, and before he can get a word in, Erik makes his request. “Sebastian, Charles is a mess; I request to help give him a bath and treat his forehead before letting him go to bed.” He decides to cut off the ‘with you,’ as he knows that would probably set the man off; and, if Shaw’s pleased, calmer smile is anything to go by, he’s chosen correctly.

“Why of course Erik, thank you. Saves Angel from having to do it, at least.”

His very frame , however, still vibrates with a leashed anger, and his eyes have not forgotten his promise to Charles; a promise of pain, of punishment.  Erik sees how the brunette avoids Shaw’s eyes, and he spirits him away past Shaw into the mansion, ignoring the cold certainty that the man’s serpentine eyes are glued,Up the stairs, into Erik’s room and then the bathroom, Erik sets to running a bath; unsure of what the brunette likes and too shy to ask, he goes with the complimentary lavender soap, swishing it around with his hand to foam in the warm water; the soft roar of the faucet is deafening in the small room, quickly clouding with a calm, humid steam.

Charles shifts from foot to foot. Erik could swear he is as nervous as himself; bathrooms are intimate places. He grabs some towels from the rack and sets them down on the closed toilet lid, getting a washcloth when he manages to find one. Charles silently observes all of this, looking at the muscles in Erik’s supple back, and says after the faucet is turned off, “Hey, you lunkhead.” Erik turns, eyes downcast, his long fingers fiddling with the stupid washcloth.

Charles doesn't understand it; the tenderness, the fairness, the distance.

“Why are you sticking your neck out for me like you are?” He tosses his curly hair, smirking with smoldering eyes.

“Not expecting a reward, are you? I may play the slut, but I’m not that easy to get, darling. Going to have to try a little harder than this to buy my affections.”

Erik blushes severely, his spine stiffening at the words. Once again, he wishes he could be better at managing his emotions. “I merely wanted to help you clean yourself, Charles; I don’t think Mr. Shaw would have let you do that alone in the first place. So, I simply offered to make things easier.”

“You’re right about that; the guy’s a possessive bastard,” Charles sighs, picking at one sleeve idly. Erik motions tentatively to the tub.

“Will you please get in?”

The younger brunette snorts softly, sliding the long shirt off his body; when Erik averts his eyes, he hears a scoff inside a laugh. There is a splash of water as he gets in, and Erik carefully glances to make sure he is decent before kneeling beside him, soaping the washcloth to take it to his porcelain arm, rhythmically scrubbing, gently wiping away every trace of muck. ‘ _It’s like bathing a doll_ ,’ he thinks.

Charles relaxes into the steamy, fragrant water as Erik washes him, something familiar in the scent, the heat in the air, a nostalgic smell longing to unlock something that is on the tip of his tongue, the cliff of his frontal lobe, then gone just as quickly. He wants to say it is a memory, but he isn't entirely sure. His big blue eyes flicker over the older man’s face, watching the rapt concentration on his angular features and… is it gentleness on his lips as he cleans, not once sliding into lust or licentious perversion even when he wipes away the mud on his thighs, his back, his stomach and chest, producing lust in any man by default?

It is. Charles doesn't understand. It could be a trick; he knows the most vile of monsters have the kindest of faces, but even if this man is a monster, he is different than the ones Charles has encountered before; he is genuine, and his chaste reaction to his nakedness says as much. He hasn't even so much as even looked in the same spot, never past the waist, either.

“It’s surprising,” Charles says quietly, lifting a leg for Erik to get his foot, “You aren't like any man I have ever met, perhaps excepting Logan; one would think just by looking at you that you would either kill them or fuck them, depending on your whimsy, not service them like a butler.”

Erik’s face reddens again, and just when he was beginning to get comfortable being around the foul-mouthed, flirtatious man. He continues to gently rub at the bottom of Charles’ foot, a nervous chord within him struck, but he doesn't let it rouse him to anger, as Charles surely meant to do.

“I am not a man who takes such things by force; I may kill occasionally for a living, but such things do not please me or give me a sense of power.”

“Don’t give me that shit, please, of course it does.” Just like every other man Charles has met.

“Don’t you dare to presume I would ever exploit someone in such a manner, Charles,” Erik retorts, pausing his cleaning to give him a narrowed glare.

“I’m not presuming, darling. It wouldn't be much of a stretch for anyone to say you have boiled over once before.” Charles says back, then, darkly, “I saw the way Sebastian looked at you, and he only ever looks, really looks at people if they’re fuck worthy or just as screwed up as he is; perverts, rapists, pedophiles, they’re all the same, consumed by lust. And I would say--”

“What?” Erik cuts him off, eyes burning with a furious intensity that both excites and frightens Charles. “You think I am a rapist?” he hisses, clenching his hands, his nails biting into the wet cotton cloth, “a pervert, a p-pedophile?” his voice cracks on ‘pedophile.’

“Rape is a crime for the narcissist, for the greedy pimp, for the wrathful soldier! There is nothing lustful about it!” He throws the washcloth into the tub with a sharp splash, shaking, grabbing his arrows and bow. Charles, nose deep in water, realizes he has unconsciously sunk deeper into the water, trying to avoid Erik’s anger.

“You can finish your own damned bath!” he shouts, slamming the door, shoving his way past a disgruntled, then further disgruntled Emma Frost. It is well into the tenth hour of the night; Alex tosses in his bed; Angel sleeps in her own peacefully, but with troubled dreams; Emma smiles, enjoying the brief taste of tension and hurt on Erik’s face; she puts on her white lingerie in wait; on nights like these, with Charles fallen temporarily out of favor, the darkness is often generous.

Shaw sits in the master bedroom, painted in darkened shades of blue. He hums to himself, a bit of something old, something blue and borrowed from the French tongue. He imagines a pale blonde beauty, not the one somewhere at the end of the hall dressed in white, icy, cold.

He gets up after thinking about glittering fish eyes flecked with copper; he relents in indulging his Hellish reveries, for she is waiting for him; a queen should be rewarded every now and again, after all.

Charles sits in the tub alone, scowling into the water, now gone cold. The room is empty now. He smacks the surface of the water with the cloth, his wet, curly hair falling into his eyes, water dripping downward, trailing his cheeks to his chin in some saddened trail.

“Damn it. You've snipped that relation in the bud, now, haven’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, in regards to motives for sexual violence, I immediately think of control, punishment, humiliation, vengeance, sadistic thrills, and aggression, the sex an incidental weapon used to carry out these things, with the pleasure involved being the lesser motivation, not saying that it isn't a main motivation, but that's just me thinking. I'm unsure if this is mostly true, but this is what I'm going with for the sake of the plot.


	12. Catching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik meets an old friend, they hash it out about normal stuff, and Azazel is a considerate guy helping another guy with his sexual problems, because he's Azazel, guys. And is that Slenderman, stalking about the woods? Nope, just Satan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, canon mangling for my own amusement, I hope you find it good as well. IDOA, just the story. Enjoy! :3

* * *

Outside, shirtless, Erik makes his way to the back of the grounds, filled with old pines, dead bushes, and dying ivy clinging to stone. His skin shivers in the cold, enough to make his breath a cloud, but he doesn't mind so much.

It feels good, cooling; it stops the shakes in his brain. He draws an arrow, knocking the fletching to the string, the string pulled to his ear, back straight, he fires at his target: the ivy leaf is speared perfectly by its thin tip, pinned to a tree. Easy as breathing now, an instinct. Several more come to help, in a straight line, evenly spaced along its small green body. Soon, he’s out of arrows, but that is alright. He’s calmer now, and the sting of Charles’ accusations doesn't hurt so much.

He can understand that it was not the man, truly, but his experiences that were saying so; he knows Shaw has probably hurt him many times, and before that, there were probably others who have also hurt him deeply. He wishes he could take back the venom in his voice, the shouting. A crack of a branch behind him. Erik doesn't jump. He looks to see Azazel, pockets covering his hands with Janos in tow, ducking his head, dark brown hair spilling about his face.

 

“Didn't know you were an archer, Erik.”

“There are many talents I have that no one knows of,” Erik replies with a slight smile, striding over to wrench each arrow from its burrowed place.

“Like what, tea making? Bonsai clipping?” They both chuckle.

Janos shuffles behind Azazel, whispers something cupped against the taller man’s ear while his eyes are nervously flickering to Erik. Azazel nods, patting his shoulder, the touch of his fingers lingering as Janos turns away, heading back inside.

Erik looks after him, and asks curiously, “Am I making him nervous? Or did I do something offensive?”

“Yes, and no; he knows no harm will come to him, but you’re quite frightening to him, Erik; he’s heard stories about you, from where he was born.”

“And may I ask where he was from originally?”

“You already did. Latin America, Columbia. I found him there when he was just a boy, living in a little riverside town. He told me he wanted to leave, to escape the place. So I obliged.”

“Drug cartels?”

“That too,” says Azazel, a sly smile working onto his darkly rugged face, “but more so because he kept seeing a man called Mandingas, and he was deathly afraid he would come to get him; in Colombia, they say he’s a bit like Christianity’s Satan; he comes looking for the souls that are due to him, luring them to their deaths with his foreign, handsome face.”

Erik blinks, and his memories surface, like driftwood ceded to the washing of the waves, bobbing.

“But in reality, he was not Satan, but a daemon, one who sought vengeance for the innocent in his charge.” Azazel levels pale foam green eyes on Erik, his own eyes sparkling, and Azazel glimmers, for just a moment, and Erik can see the daemon’s red skin, the pointed, arrowhead tail, long and whip-like, the claws on his hands.

Erik smiles at him, for though the name is different, the visage is familiar. They shake hands, clap each other’s backs in shared camaraderie. They got along well in Hell.

Erik says, “Been a long time, Belphegor, what brings you to Earth?”

“I've gotten bored sitting around in Hell with my daemons all just sitting around, they’re boring as I am,” he replies, shrugging nonchalantly. “I wanted to have a little fun, so I gave this one guy an idea about cellular phones, gadgets like that. They’re causing a real technological upheaval, people getting lazier by the minute. It’s a relentless cycle now, with new inventors. Could be even more prolific in the future.”

“So that’s why they’re all over,” Erik mutters, shaking his head. “No offense, but those things are brain killing. No bullshit about that either. Constantly yapping away on those things can’t be healthy.”

“I didn't say it was healthy. I’m in charge of sloth, just doing my job.”

“It’s been awhile since I've even thought about my own job,” Erik says almost wistfully, thinking of the innocent souls of the deer, but he shakes his head, and asks,

“Who have they got, taking my place?”

Azazel laughs heartily, tail waving with amusement. “You've been out of the loop for a century, I forgot. Michael sure has had it out for you, huh? Anyway, Lucifer has this punk former billionaire in your garden, says his name is Tony. He’s promiscuous, lusty as hell, and he takes care of those deer you love so much well, but,” Azazel winks cheerfully, “he’s not at the same level as you were. Give the guy a few millennium, maybe he’ll be halfway there.”

“Hearing you talk like that, Leviathan might take a trip down here as well just to shut you up. She hates flattery when it’s not directed at her,” Erik chuckles.

“Don’t you know?” Azazel asks incredulously, as if Erik knows and is just playing some elaborate game.

“What? Should it be obvious?” asks Erik.

Azazel stares at him in amazement, as if Erik has grown two heads, then says, “You've weakened considerably, my friend. Her shimmer is stronger than mine, granted, but you should have recognized me on sight, regardless. Emma Frost? That’s Leviathan’s human form.”

Erik’s mouth drops open, and he can’t really process what he has just been told. Emma Frost, Leviathan?

‘ _Explains the disgust, at least_ ,’ Erik thinks, remembering the many fights he had with her in the past. It’s why even with the most beautiful, graceful legs in the world, Erik still has a bit of a hitch in his step.

Her hard, glittering scales, though in their true form misshapen and ugly, are not to be trifled with.

“Who else is here?” Erik asks, feeling apprehension in the cold air, as suddenly as a lightning strike; something is close, something is going to happen.

“From what I know, me, you, Leviathan, Beelzebub--”

“Beelzebub? Here as well?” Erik’s eyebrows scrunch together confusedly.

“Angel, Erik, her human form is Angel.” Erik nods a little, recalling the webbed tattoos on her skin, reminiscent of dragonflies; the reluctance to eat the bounty of food she had prepared for the rest of the group; a fitting form of self-penance, for the supposed Lord of The Flies.

“Sorry. Continue on, Azazel.”

Azazel shoots him a patient glare, and says, “Mammon is, as far as I know, on Earth, somewhere in Asia; on vacation. Macau, I think it was, or maybe Moscow. He’ll be over shortly.”

“Influencing the powers of the world again, is he?” Erik mutters, thinking back to the last time Mammon interfered with the balance of power in the human world. “Mammon is a pestilence; a troublemaker, a self-serving corporate weapons monger. It would be better for him to live in his vaults of gold and jewels than to meddle in the affairs of men. I don’t want him here.”

Azazel shrugs. “He is greedy, yes, but what has he to do about it? It’s in his nature. Besides, he’s changed since you last saw him. Seems like he’s finally learned to share something.”

Erik rolls his eyes, smacking at the reddish daemon’s loose, long sleeved tunic. Azazel is reminded of a cat showing friendship through its claws.

“Teleport us inside. It’s getting cold, even for me.” His request is quickly obliged, and in a puff of black-red smoke, the two are in the kitchen; it is an odd feeling, teleporting. One moment in one place, another in the next with no feeling of actual transition. Erik isn't used to feeling it, but he is familiar with the feeling itself; in the days from Before, he could travel anywhere he wanted with but a snap of his fingers. He’s forgotten, though. His Other life seems like eons ago now; one moment in the Garden of Luxuria, the next in the twentieth century.

 

He breaks from his momentary daze by the sound of pouring coffee, of ceramics against wood; a puff of smoke, and his weapons are gone. To his room, supposedly. The two daemon Princes sit, and drink; Erik with seven sugars, Azazel taking his own black.

“I never told you how grateful I am that you aren't affected by my charms,” the blonde says, sipping the grainy, sweet liquid with silent relish.

“I as well, Erik. It is nice to have a friend that carries no troubles towards me.” His red tail swishes lazily, and he smiles, looking to Erik very much like a gargoyle, except friendlier. “I suppose being too lazy for sex is a good thing, in our case.”

“Let’s make it stay that way,” agrees Erik. After a beat or two of comfortable silence, the reddish man asks quietly, “Why don’t you spread your wings, Erik? At this time of night there are no intruders. And, if I’m hearing things correctly,” he shakes his head, “Sebastian and Emma should be preoccupied for the next two hours. It can’t be comfortable, being all bottled up like that.”

Just the mention of shifting spreads an itchy fire up his spine, an itch he hasn't clawed at since his first reincarnation, as a child in the woods.

“It’s not safe, as it is for you. When you transform, people get narcolepsy. When I transform, I’m asking for sex like a…” He tries to think of a more dignified example for all of ten seconds, but begging for a fuck is not and cannot be dignified in any way.  “… a bitch in heat, excuse me.”

He grimaces in embarrassment, mutters, "It didn't used to be that way."

Azazel studies Erik’s face, and asks frankly, “You haven’t been laid since forever? Since _that_ day?”

Erik stares at him in open astonishment. He has never told anyone that. He shakes his head.

“Haven’t touched yourself, either?” Azazel asks.

“No, I haven’t. Not since I was a boy, around the nineteenth century.” Indeed, the two daemons had been friends. The reddish man nods, as if he’s come to a conclusion.

“That’s not healthy, Erik, especially not for you, given the nature of your sin. It’s like Angel starving herself; she needs, craves more. I’ve tried to convince her to stop, but she won’t, and it is draining her powers to... somewhere else.” He leans over the table, and whispers, as if someone will hear, “Something is at work here, Erik, and I don’t know what, but I suspect the narcissistic ringleader down in Tartarus.”

He sees Erik’s flinch, and he pats him on the arm, an attempt at reassurance. “All I know is that it’s strong, and wishes to overthrow the Balance to instigate a, second War of the Heavens, if you will. That’s why we’re all being gathered here; Mammon is due back from wherever he is, and he’s weakened too. So,” Azazel says, getting up from his chair, “do what you must, release your pent up passions. In the forest, there is a glade, secluded, walled off on all sides but the entrance by a cliff face. If you are in need of aid, simply call. I’ll hear.”

He grips his shoulder one last time, and poofs away in smoke. Erik remembers the sulfurous scent well. They are friends, and have been for a long time; since _that_ fateful day the first war, the war in Heaven, started. In his Other life. Erik gets up from the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nooo, not that kind of aid, guys. They're bros, Erik has anxiety issues that sometimes need awkward comrade pats. So, what you think? Ware the next chappie well, as we'll be getting some terribly written pron.


	13. Give Up All Continence, Ye Who Enter Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik takes Azazel's advice to heart. Or that one chapter where Author tries to write porn and fails spectacularly. That, and abstinence can be good, it's just bad for Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I don't want to be in a public place trying to post this, so I'm just going to do it now. If you haven't commented yet, do it now, because I really need feedback on my non-existent porn writing skills.  
> /(=___0)\ This is the what have I created?! face.  
> IDOA (but the story.)  
> Also, warnings for masturbation, secret voyeur, and erotic thingies. So, skip if this isn't your thing.

* * *

He goes upstairs quickly, gets the things he needs; a coat, shoes, a towel; a knife, just in case. Then he’s out the door, silent as he walks. He is wrapped in the numbing cocoon of memory, and does not notice the follower in the leaves, black robes hidden in the blackness of the night, stealthy as one would expect of the Devil.

 

The glade is right where Azazel said it would be. Erik feels peaceful, as if its ring of trees is welcoming him inside their private sanctuary, free from human eyes or otherwise, the craggy tower of granite protective rather than ensnaring. A soft hush is created by the small water fall, flowing forth from a natural spring, collecting in a pool, reflecting the full moon. He’s nervous, as well he should be; he doesn’t know his daemon body well enough anymore to anticipate its reaction to being freed after so long in the confines of his human one. But he isn’t afraid. This place feels sacred, holy, and yet it is not trying to keep him out.

It will keep him safe, and others safe, from what he is about to unleash.

He folds the towel neatly, placing it by the pool for later, along with his coat and shoes, his pajama bottoms, his underwear. His skin is used to the breeze of the outdoors, but the heat is surfacing, slowly steaming to the surface as he lets his checks go, the night air increasingly palpable on his sensitive skin.

It’s an odd thing, to feel the grip of the very air around him, on his now docile cock. He moans softly as the prickling heat rises, gives way to the horns, like a young stag’s; next are the claws, the sharpening of his teeth, the increased suppleness of frame, lending feline grace to his movements; he kneels upon the grass, pleasantly cool, close to writhing already, arching backward.

The clearing begins to fill with the haunting, provocative scent of his own charm, dampening his skin, carrying with it its more… supernatural properties.

It would be enough to cause mass orgy, but he’s alone, and he’s grateful for that.

‘ _Not too long now_ ,’ he thinks dazedly, panting quietly as he feels his eyes start to glow. With a gasp, he feels the beginnings of wings, suddenly breaking the surface of his skin in a caul of blood, feathers bursting through, perfect and gruesome and beautiful as a raven’s.

A flood of iridescent oil slick black feathers rains down. A dark purple-red tail, covered in scales, manifests just above his entrance. The combined sensations are exquisite, and are enough to stiffen his arousal to full attention without any ministration. Erik keens, a desperate howl into the darkness. He lurches forward, his arms to the ground now, ass up; his tail twitches spasmodically, his insides beginning to grow wet and moist.

He still has some semblance of control, however, even as the lust comes on like the plague and his eyes glaze with tears of pleasure; his hand shakes as he hesitantly touches the crown of his cock, swollen already to a deep pink. He can feel the blood flowing through it, pulsating in time with his heart. The first stroke has his heart racing, his mouth salivating, his body shaking; the second opens the floodgates to his all out rutting; into his hands, the dewy, soft grass, precome slicking the way in a sensual river that never runs dry.

The fire consumes him, every cell in his body, and it feels so good, so right, after decades of denial he’s got it again, and he’s got it bad, feeling the high of his true nature running through him in a gasoline fueled inferno, his skin over-sensitized, crawling with gorgeous sensation.

If anyone else, say, someone sneaking about in the woods, saw Erik, he would see him describable only with “Sex God.”

The blonde’s angelic face is flushed a delicate pink, a blush extending to his chest, hardening pert, boyish nipples. His mouth is wet with saliva, open in moans, pants, delicious whimpers, heated cries, ripe for the picking; his physique is beautiful, cat-like, back curved in sensual abandon, toes curled.

On his knees, his shapely ass is thrust upward as his tail wriggles in and out of his wet entrance like it has a life of its own, made to pleasure, made to please, and please it does, from the sound of his breathy sobs and ragged breathing. Slick runs in hot trails down his thighs. His arched, swollen, maddened cock glistens with precome in the moonlight, the steam of his passion dissipating toward the sky.

His long, swift legs are spread wide, supporting his fevered body as he pushes back onto his own tail, gasping for more, squeezing and jerking his cock as if possessed, chest heaving, wings shivering with the force of his arousal; his eyes are but pools of black, glazed, hedged by a lining of green-grey, one clawed hand pinching at a erect nipple.

The sounds of his pleasure ricochet through the tiny glade, more sensual than anything mankind could ever produce, for he is the sire of it all.

 

Erik grinds down on his tail, moaning with wild abandon as the blunt arrow head tip rubs against his prostate again and again, filling him up to the brim, reducing him to a shuddering, whimpering mess writhing in the grass, so good it almost hurts, taut as a bowstring, ready to let arrows fly, his vision spotting red and white.

For a long time, it’s as if his sweet agony lasts for hours, and maybe it has. But then, the friction, the building heat in his abdomen, the crown of his head, his leaking cock: it’s coming to its climax. He wants to say no, not yet, but the decision is soon taken from him as the pressure peaks, the hot, liquid river falling over the precipice of his limit,

and he _comes_ , screaming, incoherently sobbing in the throes of his individual ecstasy, shaking, ass clamping down on his own tail, rutting against his hand still, head thrown back.  

 

After the worst of it, he just stops.

He curls loosely on the ground, sated and exhausted. He shivers and shudders in the aftershocks of his first orgasm in over a century, moaning softly, come and slick intermingled, drying on his pale skin with his sweat and tears.

The breeze in the glade is like a lover’s cool touch, welcome and gentle, washing away any trace of his charm; the trees rustle softly in some invisible wind, as if speaking words of tenderness in a language he doesn't understand. He feels, however, the serenity, and when it slips inside him, he welcomes it.

A dark figure smirks just beyond the protective circle of granite rock and trees, then departs in a slow ascending curtain of thick, black smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... Just... that was that. Don't forget to rate the fail.


	14. Lord of the Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Angel tells part of her story, and Erik thinks momentarily upon his. Also, when Charles wants a walk, then Charles gets his walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, most grievous days, I grovel at your feet for permission of forgiveness, but I was on a poetry stint; no longer! For the next days until my departure for weeks more, I will try to update a new chap every day! No hard feelings, I hope? Anyway, apologies again, also for this terribly short chapter, but I'm getting back into the short story swing. Enjoy, and remember, comments and critiques are muchly appreciated.

* * *

The next morning, Erik wakes feeling renewed and invigorated, clean of the night’s activities, but not forgetful of them.

It still makes him shudder as he puts on new clothes, the way his own tail could please him almost as well as another person. He’d forgotten, after so long, but now it is fresh, and he must be careful to suppress any charm; it is an addiction--once awakened-- that can’t be easily put back to sleep. He still feels a tell-tale wetness, a phantom sensation where his tail would be swishing, a sensitive prickle where his wings burst through beneath his sweater.

 

Once he gets downstairs --throwing knives the weapon of the day-- everyone but Emma, Shaw, and Charles are at the table, grabbing things like oatmeal, eggs, bacon, and what looks to Erik like some bastardized lovechild between a taco and a waffle, the product of Alex’s weird food cravings no doubt. Teenagers.

He carefully avoids them, piled inconspicuously between the eggs and the french toast. Hesitantly, he sits next to Angel, still dressed in her nightclothes, a shimmery fabric that reminds Erik of pennies, freshly minted from the coppery color. He glances at her bowl, full of bland looking oatmeal.

“You cook so many wonderful things, Angel. Why not eat some of them from time to time?” He nibbles on his french toast pointedly.

“A chef does not cook for herself, she cooks for the delights of others, Erik,” she chuckles, swallowing more of her breakfast. “Food always comes to those who cook, so I’m not concerned about myself. I should be fretting about Alex; the kid’s so skinny, even with the muscle he’s got.” She looks over at Alex with a sigh, the teen gobbling down all that is in front of him.

Erik can’t see why she’s worried, but he’s been hinted, and he sets a bait.

“Ever heard of body dysmorphic disorder, Angel?” He asks on a quiet enough frequency that it goes unheard by the human ears in the room. “I figured you would.”

She looks at him sharply, glaring down at her bowl.

“My dear Asmodeus, fond of you as I am…” she pauses, looks at his concerned expression, looks back to her food with a frown.

“I don’t pester you about your hyper sexuality; I’d appreciate it if you didn't bother me about my own set of problems.” She gets up from her seat, sighs loudly, then sits back down again.

“Did I ever tell you about how I became, y’know, what we are?”

Erik shakes his head, glancing around.

Alex eats the last of his tocaffles, hollering, “I’ll do the dishes later!” after; it leaves the room empty; of others, that is.

The air swirls with the souls of food, down to their tiniest particles; scents, dancing in the mouths of bloated flies, invisible to other’s eyes. Sweet, sour, rich, thin, flowery and fruity; bitter, beneath it all, like cilantro.

“I think I should tell you.”

Angel takes a soft breath, and begins.

 

“I was a young angel, as we all were young, in the days where Earth was new and people were not yet made. I was assigned as a gardener, and I loved it; I loved tending Heaven’s orchards of fruit and plants, serving them to the other angels in the banquet halls; it’s all so distant now…

Anyway, it went on like that for awhile, but…” here she falters, dark lashes fluttering away tears. Erik touches her shoulder in sympathy; he knows what happens next.

“Then, on a day as beautiful as any, all the angels were called to the throne room of Heaven, and God told us of the day we would no longer be his children alone; he foretold the creation of man, and with it, he created our Fall. The War started after Lucifer went insane; in the time it raged, I was kept in the dark part of the forest, starved of the Fruit of Life, and it was in that place, I turned and became leader of the sect of Flies.

Do you know what it’s like, to be starved to the point of death and never knowing hunger before it? It’s hell,” Angel breathes tearfully, “it was hell and I’m still living through it. But I know I have to fight; because if there’s any chance to be happy again, I have to fight the memory of what Lucifer did to me, to the rest of us.”

She shakes her head and strokes Erik’s cheeks. “I know what he did to you, down in the earth where he thought no one could hear; I heard the sounds; how awful they were!”

His eyes widen, and his skin turns colder; he never knew anyone had heard or seen what had occurred before the Fall, his own Fall, except Azazel. Even now, it chills his bones. She pats him gently, soft brown irises to misty green-grey. It calms him some.

“But don’t be afraid; I never told a soul. Be strong, Erik, and don’t be afraid when the time comes to read the truth.”

Erik is about to thank her, to ask her what she means, when a loud slap! distracts him; Charles’ hand on the dining table, white and small and unsurprisingly nonthreatening. The kitchen is empty, of Angel and her haunt of flies and food souls.

“Disappear on me again why don’t you,” he mutters; it’s really unfair he’s the only one he’s seen robbed of instant teleportation.

Damn Michael…

“Erik, take me for a walk already.  I've been watching you stare at the table now for ten minutes; did you hear me? I'm not in the mood for getting spanked again and I want to go outside.  Now take me, lunkhead.”


	15. Confessions Not of The Romantic Breed... Or Are They?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles gets his walk, and it's snowing outside for no particular reason at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all you lovely readers, thanks for checking in to my humble fic. I forgot to do it in the last chappie, but I'll do it here by saying IDOA but the fic. Oops, anyways, just wanted to clarify: Erik does not remember meeting Charles before the whole Satan and reincarnation thing, and neither does Charles. Sorry, hope that makes this less confusing. X3 There is a reason for this amnesia, but I can't talk about it yet.

* * *

The young Brit puts his hands on his hips, indignant and somehow still gorgeous, in a childish way. So few people manage to make anger attractive.

He’s wearing a new robe, this one dark blue silk, the bottom kissing the backs of milk colored calves. On his feet Erik notices a pair of giant, shapeless shoes masquerading as boots, poorly suited for the weather now occurring. It pains his eyes to look at them, and he carefully bends over to unlace his own boots, ones that have seen countless miles and still look quite nice, thank you.

“Erik? Erik? What are you doing? You think you can just ignore me?” Charles huffs, voice verging on cracking it’s so high with irritation. Lord’s name, is he ever quiet?

“You've got another thing coming.”

Toeing off his shoes, he gets up and handles Charles into an adjacent seat, all the while bombarded with “The hell?!” and “The fuck you think you’re doing?”

“I will not put up with this out of the blue ass handling!” shouts Charles, cheeks red.

“Calm down Charles, I’m giving you proper shoes! Those things on your feet are not going to do anything against the snow accumulating outside, so just sit still,” Erik finally grates out, glaring mildly up at the cherub faced man before slipping the boots onto his smaller feet; it’s a close enough fit that he won’t trip and break something and then blame it on Erik.

While he’s tying them, Charles remains blessedly silent. When Erik looks up again, his expression is both sullen and guardedly grateful. Are those tears glittering in the corners of his eyes?

“Hate you so much right now,” mumbles the brunette, unconvincingly sour. He makes his way towards the backdoor, clomping loudly, without another word. Erik shakes his head and follows, grabbing his coat on the way out.

 

Outside, the snow is falling steadily, not heavy enough to cover the ground just yet. Tufts of brownish yellow grass poke up their strands between small drifts. The earth is hard and barren. The trees hold the sounds in the air, preserved in the pocket of dampened noise falling snow creates, like grains caught falling in a snow-globe.

The grounds’ stone terraces are filled with dying plants and rose bushes, their last bursts of color pops of red and yellow in the brown and grey landscape of the sleepy forest. The flakes are fat, like small dust bunnies, and they congregate cheerfully in Charles’ hair, gleaming still under the grey canopy of clouds. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth, thinking of the blonde stranger named Erik who’s right behind him, footsteps silent.

He doesn't understand.

The man gave him a bath last night, gave him clothing, and now today gives him his own shoes. Charles is grateful for them, even if he doesn't show it. Even without socks, they’re warmer than what he usually gets this time of year. Shaw hasn't bought him shoes, proper ones, in ages, the mean prick. He knows it’s to make it harder for him to run away, but still, it’s irritating, as he gets whatever else he wants, no questions asked, as long as it can’t be used to escape.

Fresh air is all he craves, and he’s denied it. Still… With the early snow, the cold air biting at his skin, Charles feels some measure of peace, something he hasn't felt in a long time; and all thanks to the man behind him, an enigma if Charles has ever seen one. Unconsciously, his feet guide him towards the hedge maze, still clipped neatly, evergreen, waiting for the true winter. He feels blood surfacing beneath the skin of his lip, and he scowls harder in annoyance.

‘ _Stupid lunkhead. He’s gone and made me guilty for once_.’

 

Erik follows Charles, still within the grounds, quiet and vigilant, in case some unwanted visitor were to surface, but he knows there isn't a stray person for miles around.

Since the session in the glade, his demonic qualities have strengthened, forgoing his need for more layers; it feels nice to go about without shoes again, but he reminds himself he must be careful; one slip up could mean trouble of the murderous kind for both him and Charles.

Abruptly, Charles stops, shivering slightly. Erik can’t help but admire his figure, the tender porcelain doll he affects and the spitfire temper he possesses; it’s endearing, the way he rolls off insults that don’t mean a thing, at least when aimed at him, despite the fact it covers wounds that run deep.

“... about yesterday,” Charles says, barely a whisper.

Erik blinks, and takes a few steps forward. “I’m sorry Charles, what? My thoughts were elsewhere.”

“Gettin’ a good view of my ass?” he smirks, but it falters, crumples on itself like an old cardboard box.

“Sorry about that, I’m trying to apologize. And, I’m sorry about yesterday, with the bath, and, calling you a rapist was totally uncalled for, and that thing with the shoes today, and, gah, to hell with this!” Charles yells, as if he’s reached some overload.

Erik can only stare in astonishment.

“I don’t know if I’m crazy or if you’re some kind of magician who’s brainwashed me, but I kind of... like you. I mean, you, you worry about my safety and give me clothes and you don’t make me feel like some two-bit piece of jail-bait only good for being a hole.

You make me feel like a person, and I don’t know how to say thank you to something like that; sex is the only way I can, and… Dammit, you’re not even wearing any shoes!”

He’s breathless, and glares at Erik with all the anger a survivor of trauma has, and he knows the look, he’s seen his own face in the mirror when dreams of Auschwitz haunt him. It doesn't surprise him when the young man starts breaking down in big, burning tears, and Erik draws him into a tight embrace, even when Charles is shouting about the injustice of the world and how cruel it is for him to meet Erik now when he’s broken beyond repair, how he doesn't deserve someone so like him.

Erik just holds him, firm and gentle in his warm arms, feeling how cold and thin Charles is and wishing he could reverse it, even when he’s hitting him feebly in the back, sobbing into his coat. He holds him, puts him back together with soft sounds, the words of birds, coos and tiny gobbles, like benign pigeons, that get him to laugh a time or two; it’s a glorious sound, his laughter; unhindered, like bells of silver even in the midst of tears.

After, Charles stands back a ways, still in Erik’s arms, and wipes at his eyes and his nose. Crying makes even beautiful people ugly, there is no avoiding it; however, Erik still sees a wonder in the matted, wet lashes, the dimpled mouth, the blushing nose. Charles could never be ugly to him.

“Sonofabitch, I just poured my guts out to you and it’s only day two,” Charles laughs again, regaining his composure. “You better not be a rapist or some pervert like that,” he mutters, half joking, and Erik smiles a little.

“No, Charles, my impulses are tightly leashed. I would never hurt you.”

“Ooo, you got a thing for bondage play? _Kink_ -y!”

“Charles…”

“Right, right, you’re trying to comfort me and I need to accept that,” Charles groans, sniffling and giggling like a schoolgirl when Erik just shakes his head.

“Besides, I have somewhere to take you!” Catching him unawares, Charles grabs a thin hand and pulls him forward, footsteps pattering in the thickening snow, making more of a sheet than just a frost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... I don't even know if that was in-character enough, but, it just came out this way.


	16. Garden Maze, Reality Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you should think of the Shining hedge maze, except, cooler. Also, incubus are totally bisexual, I don't care what anyone else says! XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thought I wouldn't update did you? Ah, I'm glad I did; loving getting back in it with the two crazies. IDOA but the story, and I hope you enjoy, lovely readers!

* * *

Through several complicated dark green turns, and what seems like an eternity later, they end up in the large center of the maze. Much to Erik’s surprise, it’s like a courtyard, lined in cobblestone, with a fountain off to the side, bubbling clear water, and a battered looking stone sundial on the other;purple-blue roses cling to the perimeter of the ground, whatever climbing base available; in the very center, a sizable, circular plot of grass, which must be very plush in the spring, and above it, a trinity of apple trees, bent and gnarled with age, growing out instead of up, forming a kind of canopy a foot or so taller than he is.

He is reminded hauntingly of an abandoned bridal bed, unslept in and cold for want of warm lovers.

It’s a blinding flash of eerie deja vu, and he doesn't know why he’s just had it. It is untouched by snow, the grass dry beneath his bare feet.

Charles seems unaffected by its startling sentience, as if he is used to this place and finds comfort in its solitary privacy. He tugs Erik towards the center of the wood, his face beaming; moments ago, he was sorrowful and full of anger; now, he is almost cheerful, showing him the things inside the maze like a child showing a new friend his secret hideaway.

Erik smiles, and he can imagine how vibrant the place is in the spring, just by hearing Charles’ voice speak of it; the cadence, the tone, that unique timbre that makes it Charles’ voice; it’s beautiful, when all he has heard it do is yell or mutter with spite.

“Come lie down with me in the grass!” Charles grins, and God, it’s enough to make his heart flutter stupidly, like a bird that has forgotten how to fly and is trying to anyway. Wordlessly, Erik gets down and opts to lie on his side, contrasted to the brunette’s sprawled form, hands finally parted. He drapes his coat over Charles, whose eyes are shut in contentment. He snuggles into the thick black material, shivering, Erik near his head, long fingers combing lightly through the dark brown waves.

His own eyes stutter, drowsiness weighting them, and he feels his head droop, like heavy blossoms in the rain. It doesn't hit him that he’s lost some control over his charm until Charles speaks, azure eyes wide and shocked between dark rims of lashes, stark against the paled backdrop of his already milky skin.

“The hell…? Erik…?” He gets up shakily, blinking and rubbing his eyes, like a man who has woken from a dream he’s still seeing.

“You… you changed.” His slender brow furrows in confusion, helpless to describe the magical shimmer that he just saw as Erik quickly suppresses his charm, wide awake now and fearful.

“Charles…this isn't… you didn't see…”

Charles looks at Erik, again and again, trying to conjure up the unearthly beauty, with antlers he’d caught a glimpse of, but nothing; just Erik. Handsome, Greek sculpture chiseled, but otherwise normal Erik. The fuck? Did he just think that? Whatever.

Charles doesn't know what to think.

And frankly, it’s freaking him out just a little. He figured as much Erik wasn't just some hired assassin; he knew as much from the start, but he wasn't expecting something like this.

“Tell me what you can,” says Charles, a determined set to his jaw, his pure, clear blue eyes, knowing that the truth is never told when someone asks “Tell me everything.”

 

“So what you mean to tell me is you’re a daemon prince from Hell, you've been reincarnated three times, and you’re the one who gets to have sex all the time?”

Charles asks straight out, staring at Erik as if to see any sign of insanity or foaming at the mouth.

He cringes instantly, blushing hard. “Charles! I’m the one with, more exotic desires, I don’t get to have sex anytime I want.”

“But you could if you wanted to,” Charles grins, his eyes almost alight with… excitement!

“Just my luck, I run into someone as sexually twisted as I am,” groans Erik, smoothing back his hair with both hands in an attempt to calm down and regain his wavering control of his charm. “How can you just, believe me, and not think I’m an absolute lunatic?”

Charles shrugs, drawing Erik’s coat around him with an altogether different breed of smile on his face; one that has seen better days, but is still soft around the edges.

“I don’t know, Erik, I just… I've got this really good feeling about you. I mean, you haven’t lied to me yet, or hurt me… You’re anything but a bad person in my book,” he finishes, looking up at the sky.

“You’re a lot like this place… Mysterious, kind of weird, maybe even a bit mischievous deep down; but not bad. Besides,” he adds impishly, “I've seen stranger things and believed them.”

“Yeah, like what?” Erik asks, genuinely curious.

“Like internet porn silly,” Charles laughs, rolling his eyes. “And here I thought that being a succubus you’d know all about it. Some of that shit is just absolutely unreal, like this one I watched about--”

“Charles, I already told you I am not the spreader of internet based pornography, and I am not a succubus, I made them. And even if I were, the correct term would be incubus.”

“I love seeing you get red, lunkhead. Wait, you made the succubi and all those other sexy daemons?” Charles asks, scooting closer to Erik, the two side by side now in the grass. “How did you go about doing that, and why?”

“Full of questions aren't you? Just hush and I might be able to give you an answer.”

“...Did you just call me a blabber mouth?”

“No, I just said you need to be quieter.”

“Cheeky bastard, yes you did!”

They both laugh, and after a few moments, Erik shakes his head, breathless, and says, “I didn't create them on purpose, you see; just got out of control in a populated area and accidentally imbued them with demonic energy; you know the ancients, straight laced in the day but they loved their orgies at night. None of what I did was on purpose, except that time I killed off all of Sarah’s fiancées. They were bad men anyway, I was saving her some trouble. Anyway, my own nature is to twist sexual desire; I may not want to do it, but it happens without me; luckily, that has been taken from me for awhile, so I don’t have to worry about accidentally making marriages fail or making adulterers of nice couples.”

Charles looks down in thought, rubbing at his arms through the plush fabric; Erik decides to put them as close as can be, sides touching. Charles smiles, leans into the warmth of the touch. “Hm. How come you don’t have to, well, do your job now? Are you fired?”

“More like on leave; punishment, for something Michael wiped from my memory. Can’t remember what it was, for all that I try and stay awake at night thinking about it. But I’ll go back, once he decides he’s punished me enough.”

The brunette frowns slightly, then abruptly reaches out to grasp his hand, porcelain to chalk. “It’s selfish and it’s childish, I acknowledge it for once, but I still don’t want you to ever leave me.”  His cheeks flush, and he adds hastily, "I've never had a friend like you before.  Ever."

“I won’t be leaving soon, Charles; this kind of punishment can last decades. You don’t have to worry about it,” Erik reassures him, voice soft. Charles wishes he could wrap it around him, silken as it is.

“Until you die again, right?”  This is said in a small voice, quiet and anxious.

“Yes, but we have time, Charles; I’m not even thirty yet.”

“Will you remember me, after you get reincarnated?” Charles looks up at him, barefaced, none of the brash bravado or daring he’s seen; just Charles, open and vulnerable and for once, he and his face is sweet. So beautiful; he’s reminded of the deer of the Other, his wards, mere babies in his ancient eyes. Erik can’t help but touch their foreheads together, breath misting in the cold, or is it something else, making its hazy way through the sharp air?

He looks into his eyes, and he can feel Charles doing the same, the space between them charged like two electrodes getting ready to fire.

“I could never forget you, Charles.”

“You’re doing that thing again,” the brunette breathes with a wide smile. “You’ve got antlers on your head and your eyes are sparkling, like green kaleidoscopes. God, you’re so-- that’s what you really look like, right?”

“Yes, I’m sorry I--”

“Don’t be. Just let go, my friend. Show me the real you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... Will he, I wonder? What do you think will happen? Until next time, readers; comment, kudos, and kudos to all of you currently reading and liking!


	17. Shedding Skins... and What's That Squirmy Thing In The Pants?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles likes danger and euphemisms are completely accidental. A very bad combination for poor Erik all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all you lovlies, thank you for tuning in to another chapter. As always, IDOA, and a bit of a warning: handjobs for demon tails, and lots of me trying to be clever. You can decide if I succeeded or not. Have fun and enjoy!

* * *

“Charles, friend, I would, but it’s… It’s not that simple.”

“What? What’s so complicated about it?” Charles huffs, grabbing Erik, close as he is, by the back of the head, ruffling his previously smooth blonde hair.

His mouth flattens in slight irritation, but he doesn't let it paint his words. “If I were to transform right now, we’d have a sexual problem of massive proportions on our hands.”

“Are you talking about your dick or something else?”

“Charles!”

“Sorry, sorry, trying to lighten the mood, but seriously, what would happen? Worse case scenario I get fucked or get turned into some sexy nearly immortal daemon. I’d forgive you, of course. Doesn't sound so bad. I mean, there aren't any detrimental side effects to me, are there?”

“Various unsavory symptoms of overly vigorous intercourse… Which could prove deadly.”

“Dearest you got me with deadly, but otherwise, plainly?”

“I could… Accidentally kill you,” Erik mutters, eyes darting to the side in obvious embarrassment. “This isn't something I can just control now, Charles, it isn't safe. This frenzy could last… Days.”

“Sounds like a pretty groovy way to go compared to the ways I’ve seen some guys: thrown into a pit of hungry pit bulls? Murdered in some shitty back alleyway? Choking, naked might I add, face down on the floor in your own ecstasy laden vomit?” Charles grins boldly, he’s always liked a little danger, “I’d take _your_ brand of ecstasy any day.”

“You’re such a horn-dog!” groans Erik, trying to back away, but the brunette still has a pretty fair grip on his hair.

“I might be a horn-dog, but then what are you, Mr. Pot? We’ll never know if we don’t try.”

Even if it goes against all the barriers and careful dams he has constructed over the years, the honest faith in Charles’ blue eyes has him won over in a matter of treacherous moments. He just hopes he has it in him to hold back if things get out of control. “…Alright. But you can’t try and cop a feel, okay?”

“I won’t. Just stay calm, and close your eyes, okay?” The hand in his hair leaves to the sides of his face, warm and steadying. Erik closes his eyes. He breathes in, slow and steady, relishing the icy sharpness of it; his ribs suddenly feel Charles’ hands graze them through the sweater, calming, helping the rhythm; he breathes out, guided by those hands, and he can feel the cloak, unworn for so long, slowly follow the contours it used to lie upon, like custom gloves that tingle the skin.

It’s miraculous: his charm is all over the place, and he isn't going crazy. Compared to the thundering of his heart, it’s lethargic, almost, the way his tail manifests; he stops himself from growing the wings, and moaning, but he can’t help but wiggle where he sits, the long, very sensitive appendage cramped in his pants with nowhere to go but out, and Erik isn't sure if he wants that part of him bare yet.

Charles doesn't notice his discomfort, too occupied with his new face, bathed in weak sunlight for the first time in decades. His smaller hands move to his face, and they draw apart so he can see.

Charles is speechless, a rarity in itself he internally admits, it’s for a good reason; now, right now, words would not be good enough; they would be dull and untruthful when paired with the loveliness of Erik’s face. It’s almost like he’s reacquainting himself with Erik all over again; each feature seems to be that much sharper, thinner, like the edge of a blade.

His eyes are worried and searching, but it doesn't diminish the almost opalescent green sheen to them, rimmed by the same dark blonde lashes he’s used to seeing. His lips are slightly parted, giving Charles a glimpse of sharpened teeth, literally like a shark’s.

Ethereal, his pale skin almost glowing, the brunette is enchanted, cheeks heating as he feels something stir under the thin silk of his robe, resisting the urge to yank him forward to smash their faces together in a dirty, wet kiss. Shyness comes over Erik’s features; hooded eyelids, a trembling kind of smile, elated yet unsure.

The voice is his, but Charles can swear he hears music. Dark, terrifyingly beautiful music. “I can smell your skin; like cotton, and oak trees… ivory soap.”

Erik tilts his head slightly to the side, a wry light making its way into his sea gem eyes. “You aren't… Freaked out, right?”

“God no. You that much of a lunkhead?” laughs Charles, practically throwing himself onto Erik’s lap, arms around his neck.

“This is all pretty cool, and I like whatever you look like; you’re Erik, that’s all that counts for me.”

The blonde hugs him, blinking away happy tears. This is more than he could have ever hoped for; another friend, untainted by his deadly aura.

“That means a lot to me, Charles; thank you.”

“Get sentimental on me and I’ll try and hit you again,” the brunette chuckles, leaning against him. It’s then he finds an odd ridge in the back of Erik’s pants…

Which seems to be moving.

“Well what do you know, have you got a tail my friend?” Before Erik realizes what’s even happening, quite a feat on Charles’ part, he reaches around to have his tail in hand, long, dark purple-red and scaled, ending in a blunted, vaguely spade or heart shaped head. It’s highly sensitive, and it wrenches a nervous squeak from the daemon’s mouth. Charles takes full advantage, grinning like a daemon himself as his soft, pale fingers play along the surprisingly smooth, hot surface.

“Damn Erik, didn't think my grabbing your tail would make you squeal like a girl,” he snickers, that hand moving up and down lightly, curiously exploring.

“It’s soft, a bit like a woman’s skin.”

“S-Shut up!” hisses Erik, “And I thought we had a deal about not copping feels!”

“I didn't know that included your tail, you should have told me that; besides, why would anyone assume a tail would be an erogenous zone? People don’t even have those, it’s not like I’d know from experience,” Charles retorts, tightening his grip.

Erik shudders, arching against him before he can stop himself. He’s too mortified to formulate a comeback.

“Charles, could you let go? I think you've had enough fun teasing.”

“Who said I was teasing?” asks Charles, the middle of the maze going dead quiet.All Erik can hear is their own breathing, the soft hiss of falling snow, elsewhere.  

He can feel the thudding in his chest, the prickle of grass beneath him, the soft brush of his turtleneck, the nipping cold.  Charles looks him in the face, and he’s not playing a game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love cliffies, oops if you hate me for it. XD So what does this mean? I don't know, you tell me. This wasn't really an idea I had in the first place, but it happened, so, yeah. Thanks again, and see you tomorrow!


	18. A Game Changer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the wanking continues, and a serious kink is thrown into Charles' and Erik's dynamic, pun totally intended for purposes of humor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all you lovlies, I am so amazed and thankful for all the praise that has been shown to me in the past couple days! I mean, to me, a jump from thirty to forty in but three days is a big one, and I am truly grateful for all the positive feedback! Sorry this chappie is so skimpy, but I promise I'll make up for it next time! So, IDOA, enjoy the read, and don't read if you don't like demonic handjobs.

* * *

He strokes his tail from middle to base, the traitorous thing slithering in delight, Erik biting his lip, wincing, but Charles’ eyes never leave his face, and it’s gorgeous, watching him watch; that dark, waved hair, falling perfectly around his angel’s face, the lips tinted like burst cherries by the frigid air; those fiery eyes, blue like the sky, deep and unknown as the ocean, he’s the beautiful one, and Erik wants to tell him so, but he can’t, voice stuck in his throat.

All that can come out is a gasp, the tiniest of whimpers, as a strange but not foreign pressure begins to gently build itself, his nerves singing to the tune set by the devilish maestro in his lap, orchestrating the explosion on the horizon, burning away the world until it’s just them.

He lets go.

He lets himself wrap his arms around Charles, hide his face in the soft crook of his neck, muffling cries against the consenting shore. Charles lets him, because he knows how shameful he feels, will feel for a long time, until Charles can break him from it.

Because slavery is Erik’s freedom, and freedom his slavery. He clamps his teeth shut as Charles murmurs into his ear, something that has him where the brunette wants him; teetering at the top, ready to fall. When he’s pushed, his body goes rigid, arms squeezing Charles through the hot climax, going limp then against him, breathless and panting into his neck.

The talkative man himself seems just as breathless, chuckling weakly after the intimate tension of the moment is broken, Erik’s tail still in his hand, wiggling slowly, a thin, milky substance dripping from the tip.

“So did your tail just come?” asks Charles, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. It’s an irresistibly funny situation, in Charles’ eyes.

“Are whales mammals? Are sharks fish?”

“Um, maybe?”

“Yes, you dolt…” Erik sighs with a smile, peeking out at Charles through his face’s hiding place.

“Still not weirded out? And m’sorry, for doing that to your hand…”

“No, I’m not. And stop being so ashamed or something, I practically molested you just now; you didn't force me into doing anything I wasn't already doing. Be happy,” demands Charles in that same voice he uses to get everything else he wants.

So Erik withdraws his face and looks down at Charles, still with that terribly attractive twitchy, toothy smile. Charles wants to eat him it’s so sweet.

And on a killer? Charles never knew.

“So it’s like, you've got a second cock, right?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“ ‘Sadly?’ That sounds like it would be awesome to me.”

“Trust me, it gets pretty confusing sometimes,” says Erik dismissively, unwilling to go into the sordid details of trying to anonymously _and coolly_ lap dance someone. That is to say, it’s really, really easier said than done.

They clean up as best they can and relax after that, silence like a fluffy blanket in the maze as they lie side by side. Charles watches the clouds, still moving in the tightly packed cover they create, the sun but a dim, white disk overhead.

He turns to Erik, and, feeling this is what should be said, “I’m not sure what this does to our… relationship… But I wouldn't have changed it, Erik.”

“The feeling’s mutual Charles,” that wonderful voice replies, clear and unafraid. Charles thinks, watches the clouds as they shuffle past, that this was an event meant to be, stupid as it sounds. As much as he doesn’t believe in that sort of thing… It feels right. He turns his head back to the side, sees the strands of brownish grass brush Erik’s light blonde hair, the dark antlers on his head, somehow inverted, the grass popping up beside them instead of the other way around.

He feels a stirring of remembrance in his bones, but then it slips away, like a dark shadow into the cover of night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What DID Charles murmur in his ear? Are they friends? Lovers? Handjob buddies AND friends? And where is Azazel? I'll see you again tomorrow, wonderful readers!


	19. Ovaltine, Ice Queens, and Possessions of the Demonic Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Emma and Charles do not get along, and there are some serious freaky vibes being channeled by the writer, because Shaw is a creepy motherfucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovlies, glad to have you back for another chapter! IDOA, I don't know Emma Frost very well, don't have to know canon always, and oops if I didn't describe panic attack symptoms accurately. You can glaze over that if that kind of thing triggers you, but it's not really graphic and is towards the end of the chapter. Also, dropped a seven deadly sins fun fact reference or two; can you find them? XD Anyway, enjoy the read.

* * *

As the sun sinks low onto the horizon, the hedge mazes cast the shadows deeper, a blue tint cast over the place.

Charles opens his eyes, he’s seems to have dozed off. When he fully wakens, still bundled up in that coat, he makes his way over to the sundial with creeping dread, biting his lip and cursing when he sees the time. “Holy shit Erik, we need to go back,” says Charles, voice rising in a panic.

“Shit shit shit, this bad, it’s like five fifty!”

“Sorry Charles, you must have the power of sleep,” mutters Erik, brushing at his ethereal eyes.

“Fucking hell Erik, get your ass in gear and start running, it’s like, ten minutes before curfew time!”

“For you, that is.”

“This isn’t a joke!” Charles all but shouts, shooting a slightly venomous look in Erik’s direction.

“Don’t worry,” Erik smiles, dulcet voice calming Charles’ fried nerves. “Just grab hold and don’t let go.”

Charles sighs, and with a skeptic grimace runs over to Erik, holding onto his neck for dear life.  "Just get us back in time or Shaw will have both our asses."

Erik swings him up, catching his legs for a bridal-style hold that has Charles sweating in the dusk.He’s sweating for a whole other reason as Erik, literally, begins to run like the wind, weaving through the maze at a speed which makes Charles guilty for walking so slowly before; but he reminds himself: this is daemon Erik.

He tries to keep calm, but the speed is frightening enough to make him close his eyes, the dark greenery rushing past like in the movies, nothing but a big blobby blur.

 

It had taken a good twenty minutes to actually navigate the maze, and Charles knows it better than anyone, but now, it seems like just moments, and they’re back at the start. Erik sets him down slowly, as Charles wobbles, still a little disoriented, but quickly regains his sense of balance, practically running on autopilot to the mansion with Erik close behind, now slowly but surely hiding his more eccentric features again.

“I’m here!” shouts Charles, gasping for air as he bursts through the door, nearly slamming it into a scowling Emma.

“Watch where you’re going, _catamite_ ,” she hisses, flipping her blonde tresses with an arrogant wave of her delicate hand, long nails painted and venomous.

“Where’s your little bodyguard? Sebastian will be very displeased with you once I tell him you've been wandering about without him all this time, and five minutes before curfew at that.” She looks down her perfectly straight nose at him, sneering. “I wonder just exactly what you were doing out there in the maze.”

“Piss off Ice Queen,” Charles growls, standing his ground, despite the fact he won’t win.

“It’s none of your business and you can’t frame me for anything tonight. I’m on time and Erik’s been with me the whole day. In fact, he’s right here.”

Erik blinks, oblivious to the battle of wills he’s just walked in on. He shuts the door quietly, staring pointedly at Emma, Leviathan, over Charles’ shoulder. Her almost white blue irises meet his green ones, and she feels the mismatching of the two colors in their owner’s sockets, the green that should rightfully be in hers, and jealousy colors her cheeks as she walks off without another word, high heels clicking like snapping dogs on the hardwood floor.

“Teach her to mess with me anymore,” huffs Charles, fisted hands on his hips, frowning after her. He turns and sees Erik, then laughs, loud and breathy.

Erik smiles a bit in turn, asking, “What’s so funny Charles?”

“Oh, it’s just, it was you that did it! You scared _Emma Frost_ into tucking tail!” cackles Charles, bent over with laughs and giggles and helpless bursts. After, he straightens, and says seriously, “Emma doesn't take shit from anyone but me, and that’s just because if anyone but Shaw hits me then they get punished. She’s too much the well-behaved bitch for him to dare hit me around, but someone else so much as looks at her funny? She carves them into a bloody filet with those nails and heels. She uses adder venom in her polish, and you just _glared_ at her!”

He shakes his head, amazed.  “Just what kind of man are you Erik?”

“I’m the kind that likes to protect what’s mine,” says Erik quietly, failing to prevent his facial capillaries from flooding with blood.

“You’re my friend, Charles, it’s only right I should protect you.”

‘ _God, now I sound like Mammon. Not that I’d ever let the bastard know it_ ,’ thinks Erik with an inner face hit, tugging a bemused Charles to the kitchen.

“Come now, you need fluids. Angel should be in here by now…”

“Angel is here and she made cocoa in celebration for the first snow!” says Angel with a bright smile, handing them both steaming mugs of the stuff. Charles goes right in and chugs it, grinning unabashedly when Angel decries him as a pig, almost as bad as herself. They laugh, and Erik smiles, looking down at the rich brown liquid. The aroma is enticing: malt ovaltine in whole milk, with just a hint of marshmallow cream. It reminds him of winter and happier memories.

He decides to sit down and drink, cradling the warm cup in his hand fondly. His mother would make this for him, after he’d come in from playing in the snow. He reminisces for a moment while Angel and Charles chat.

“So you have fun today with Erik? I know he can be a bit of a sourpuss, but he’s really sweet to people he likes, and I know he likes you. Not a common thing for Erik.” “Erik’s less of a lunkhead than I made him out to be, but don’t let him know I told you that. You know Erik from some other place, Angel? You talk like you know him well.”

“I suppose you could say that. We were in the same line of work at one time, long ago. We weren't too close, but we knew each other’s names.”

Erik finally takes a sweet sip, it's that moment when he hears footsteps, a dark voice say, “Charles, my dear, thank heavens you’re actually in the mansion on time! I thought I’d have to send Azazel out for you again!” and is hit by a wave of memories, mixed and jumbled up inside his head because they’re too painful for him to organize, things that are supposed to be locked away.

His hands suddenly feel numb with cold, tingling; a racing starts in his chest, constricting his breath like dread. He remembers this, and it has a name: it is _terror_. Dropping the cup in his confusion, it shatters on the floor, startling Angel and Charles. His body won’t stop shaking, and it’s cold. Charles looks on at Erik’s state in confusion. “Erik? Are you alright?”

When he doesn't respond, Angel turns and takes one look at his frozen jaw, the sweaty pallor of his skin, and in realization cries “Shit, he’s having a panic attack!” ****

It’s said moments before he falls, would've fallen onto the floor had it not been for his unexpected savior:  Sebastian Shaw himself, cradling Erik in his arms as if he’s the most fragile thing in the world, looking down into his unconscious face with… Concern?

No one else moves, Charles in silent rage and Angel in blatant shock as Shaw checks Erk’s pulse, his breathing.  The older man’s tone is dry and calm when he says, “Angel, a cold cloth please.”

She shakes her head out of the daze and gets one, handing it to him wordlessly, still in shock.

He takes it with a thank you and gently mops at the blonde’s sweaty brow, his colorless cheeks, like a parent to an ill child and it makes Charles both enraged and sickened to see the fucker’s hands on him at all, especially in this uncharacteristically kind way.  

“Where is Alex?”

“Uh, he should be cleaning up in the basement, sir, like you asked him to this afternoon.  Azazel and Janos are in the library.”

“Good.  Now, if you would take Charles to my room please, I’d be much obliged, Angel.”

Charles is snapped out of his raging when he hears this.  “Now wait just one goddamn minute!” he growls softly, blue eyes burning.  “You don’t actually think I’ll leave him here like this? And with you?  Over my dead body Sebastian!  I won’t let you hurt him.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter, Charles; Erik doesn't need your chaotic energies right now, and this is why I need you to leave; to treat his anxiety.”  He frowns at Charles dispassionately, and he knows it won’t do any good for him to argue anymore.  He leaves with Angel holding his hand, shedding tears of wrath.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you manage to find any references? Why is Shaw being so oddly nice? At least we found out where Azazel is. Stay tuned for another chapter of Kuss des Todes, Kuss der Liebe


	20. Machiavell Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shaw is being creepy and Erik and I are both going "NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE!" Also, violin euphemisms are so cliche, but bear with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry my lovelies, but I am very worried I won't post another chapter immediately after this, as I have real world business tomorrow and that always disrupts writing. But, I'll try my darned hardest, like right now. It's two o' clock and I'm still awake for you all! SO, IDOA, it seemed a bit longer when I saw it in Docs, oops, and enjoy the read!

* * *

The kitchen now empty, Shaw looks down at Erik, now coming to, grey green eyes dazed under fluttering blonde lashes. He wants to gouge them out and set them in silver, to preserve forever, to look at each morning, each night; jewels more beautiful to him than any other.

“What…?”

“It’s alright, Erik, you've just had an anxiety attack, but you are unharmed.”

Seeing his breathing ratchet up, residual panic, no doubt, Shaw shushes him softly, smoothing back his sweat chilled hair with a smile that comes off to Erik in his confused state as saccharine, but off, somehow.

“Shh, Erik, you’re safe, there is no danger here.”

Erik wants to tell him he’s dangerous, they’re both dangerous, but his throat is dry, and he has only the energy to croak, “Where’s Charles?”

A slight tightening of Shaw’s thin lips, a displeased glint in the eye quickly hidden, gone unnoticed, before he replies.  
“He’s in my room, also safe and sound. Can you stand, Erik?”

The blonde sits up, a hand pressing into his back should he need it. For reasons Erik can’t fathom, the contact makes him shudder beneath his sweater. He tries to stand up, moving onto one knee, but shakes his head as his leg wobbles. “My apologies, si-Sebastian. I am not prone to… such episodes. This was the first; I’ll be fine in the morning with some rest.”

“I understand, Erik, I’m not upset with you. Now, go to sleep, I’ll carry you.”

“What…?”

Their eyes meet-two windows aligned, one person looking out into the other one as murder happens- and Erik grows drowsy.

“Sleep,” Shaw whispers, and Erik does as he’s told, obediently and without question; closes his eyes, and falls into a light doze. Shaw smiles, picking him up, head leaning on his shoulder. He holds him close, like a favored doll, as he ascends the staircase and opens the door to Erik’s bedroom, unbeknownst of the disguised red daemon watching from below the spiral stairs as the door closes.

 

Erik wakes again, lying on his back in bed; he looks to the right and sees a glass, an old clock. He’s in his room; he remembers only the sudden panic, now dulled and faraway; he doesn't have a clue how he got here. He gets his answer fairly quickly when he turns to the left to see Shaw, sitting on the edge right next to him, fiddling with some music playing device. It’s startling enough to make him twitch, just a little, and Shaw looks down at Erik with that same misplaced saccharine smile.

“Ah, you’re awake. I’m afraid everyone else has had dinner, but I saved some soup for you.  
Would you like it now?”

“Yes, thank you,” the gurgles in his stomach prompt him as he sits up against the pillows, very aware of the hollow eyed man sitting near him.  “But first, I would like to know, Sebastian, your intentions, your…” Erik knows this is not a question to ask anyone, especially one’s crime boss, but he does it anyway, “motives.”

A spoon and a steaming bowl are thrust at him instead of an answer. Cautiously, Erik takes a look inside; chunks of beef, potatoes, carrots; translucent onions, flecks of herb green in the tawny gold broth. No poison, as far as he can detect, unless it’s of the tasteless and odorless variety. He feels he is expected to, so he begins to eat, as Shaw talks in that quiet, sultry way of his.

“My motives, dear Erik, are simple; to make you as comfortable as possible.”

This punctuated by a thin hand on his thigh, oddly warm for a man that looks so cold. Erik is reminded of a waiting predator, and keeps his face carefully in neutral. Shaw goes on without a pause, as if the hand is not his.

“As far as I’m concerned, you've proven yourself to be a valuable asset to my little pod here.”

“In just days, if you don’t mind me saying so, Sebastian?”

“Looking after Charles is no common task, and you've done quite well; it’s as good an indicator as any. So, very, very plainly, I am treating you with all the courtesy I apply to the others, excluding Alex; Alex is almost as troublesome as Charles, in some respects, and requires more firm treatment.”

“Very passionate, those two,” agrees Erik tentatively, nibbling at a piece of potato, holding the bowl close to his chest.

“What I wonder,” stopping just short of his carotid artery, the hand previously on his thigh thumbs the point of rushing blood, feeling his heart beat like some dangerous, sensual suggestion, his voice softer than a whisper, “is just what kind of passionate you are, Erik… Not a piano, or a trumpet… I’d say you’re a violin.”

Erik’s breathing is hushed and shallow; he’s afraid to breathe, with this viper trying to entangle him in his coils, sending shivers over his skin that aren't wholly unpleasant. Still and quiet, he curses his physical sensitivity, his inability to do anything. Because he knows that it would not come back to haunt him; no.

It would come back to haunt Charles.

“Yes, a violin; the finest, crafted from snowy alpine spruce in the height of winter, stained deeper and carved by a master craftsman, just waiting to be played; not by amateurish, clumsy hands that screech the elegant strings and fray the bow. No, what you need is a _master_ violinist, with clever, steady hands, a touch controlled and experienced; familiar. One that could make your catgut strings sing as they were meant to, with sounds rich, smooth, dark and trembling, like the voice of a tenor’s vibrato: sweetly, achingly perfect.”

The pressure turns soft on his neck, definitely a caress, and Erik can’t help but gasp, just a little, frozen by Shaw’s colorless blue eyes and the way his hand seems to brand him with heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaagh, where is anti-offender spray when you need it? Let's hope something happens to save poor Erik! I'll see you then, dear readers!


	21. The Seduction of Asmodeus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shaw has gone from creepy to a potential rapist, I drop more hints and references, and Erik is still not liking this one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at me, actually got an okay amount done! If someone wouldn't mind, perhaps in their free time, humble author would like a pointer or two on how to write Sebastian Shaw, because I am so not sure I'm doing it right, or even a praise, if you think I deserve it! XD Minor warning for awkward and dub con touching, but nothing happens below the belt so to speak; non graphic, as far as do-not-want goes. Anyway, enough of my talking! IDOA, and enjoy the story!

* * *

“I bet no one has ever called you that, have they? Called you perfect…”  
And it’s true, no one has, but what does it matter, really?

“I’m not.”

Erik leans into each caress on a different cord, not his own, pulled in by some unnameable, invisible strand, close enough to hear the music pouring out of Shaw’s earphone, a woman singing in a mournful voice, “ _It is pure white, just like sin_ ,” followed by the weeping of the violins and their kin.

“But you are, Erik… More than any other person I've ever seen... even Charles…”

His name brings guilt and betrayal, though Erik knows this isn't his fault anymore than Charles’, with his sweet blue eyes and kind, encouraging words, hidden in their hotness.

“Don’t bring him into this; whatever this is, don’t bring him into it.”

He feels strange, he feels like an animal eating from the wrong owner’s hand as he looks into those disturbingly blank eyes with whimpers in his throat, even if they are disguised as coughs. The single hand is tender, intensified by a second rough, hot hand, tightening around his neck like a collar, and Erik just sits there, letting him do it because what other option does he have? He doesn't let himself lie when his mind thinks it’s just the job, the threat of being removed from Charles, that keeps him paralyzed to the spot. It’s a large part of it, but he’s been here before, in a different place, a different time, in the very same position.

On that Day: a man’s rough, heated hands, encircled his neck in domination, in twisted epiphany, realization and maturation of budding lust, him before the perpetrator, enraptured and hopelessly captured by his own flawed design.

“But tell me, Erik, why would someone like you so doubt your own undeniable allure?”

His eyes close, and that elicits a slight sound from Shaw: disapproval.

“Don’t look away from me when I am speaking to you. Open your eyes, and keep them open.”

The words strike surprise, the resounding command forcing him to look in shock as much as obedience.  
In that short time of darkness, Shaw shifted himself over Erik, their noses almost touching, a kiss but a breath and an accidental move away. And Erik is afraid. His heartbeat stutters weakly in fright and hated arousal, the dark scent of Shaw’s skin close, like rich soil and bitter flowers that only grow in caves, deep in the earth, without light or air or organisms that can see them. It’s nauseating, cloying, hypnotic in its raw masculinity.

“I’m no one special, Sebastian.”

“Yes you are; you’re a rare snake, a beautiful bird.”

“I thought I was a violin,” laughs Erik darkly, strained as his throat is hugged by those hands.

“All the same, my dear Erik; what is a snake that cuts out its fangs, a moon-flower blooming in the day?  
A thing unique in beauty turned innocuous and dull. They cease to be the way fate intended, like robbing a snow leopard of its spots, or the cow of its horns.I can’t fathom why you would deny your nature so outright, clip your wings useless, and for some ten-a-penny brat whose looks will eventually fade and wither.”

Erik flinches, draws as far back as he can, but Shaw just inches closer once more, enchanted by Erik as much as Erik is paralyzed by him.

His empty eyes keep a measured look as he says,

“I know how he feels for you.”

This really gets Erik panicking, but it is swiftly, if not totally, brushed off.

“I don’t blame you, however. It’s always the same for any man that has treated him with any sort of kindness, a type of Stockholm syndrome no doubt. The devil in disguise, he is, false in his parted thighs, false in his glossy hair and pretty eyes, though you needn't be told. You've really seen him before.”

“Charles isn't flighty or easy to categorize as you think.  As for my 'wings', I have teeth; I have no need to fly.”

“You lie. You keep your wings clipped to keep tame, little bird. You do it to hide what a wonderful creature you are. Abandon such useless trappings of anonymity, of mediocrity, of weakness; I could make you so much _more_. Ganymede was but a mortal prince before Zeus made him the cup-bearer to the gods, lovely and immortal. Ah, but you are much like myself, when I was young; full of light and undying humility, naive to power's pleasure.”

“Sorry to say,” Erik smiles grimly, “but you and I are nothing alike. And as for your Hera: I could never displace her.”

Again, that saccharine, sickly smile, with all the perfect, white square teeth. “In the same way, you’ll come around and see yourself the same, as you should. Superior to others… Like father like son, I suppose; the creator to his creation.”

Erik doesn't even try to think about what that means, hoping only that their lips do not meet, so he can keep his promise to Charles: that he would never hurt him.

“Now stay still like a good boy, Erik, and take your goodnight kiss…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... I'm almost scaring myself with this cliffy.  
>  Anyway, hope you enjoyed, and someone should definitely tell me if I'm writing right or totally wrong. Also, borrowed some imagery from the Greek myth about Ganymede, a reference to Robert Herrick's weird poem, Ripley's Ripley Scroll, and Rule of Rose's theme, A Love Suicide. Never played the game, not a gamer, but it has a killer soundtrack; look up the main theme on Youtube, it's beautiful! See you in the next chappie!


	22. The Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Emma uses her bitch-fu on Shaw, behind the scenes, and Azazel has a book. Which just so happens to be magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all you wonderful readers, thank you for coming back for another chapter! First of all, IDOA, as always, and secondly, we get to see the prophecy I mentioned in the story's summary ages ago! Sadly, I tried getting it in Latin, and it came out one big jumbled mess, so I just kept it in English; a little less enchanting that way, but oh well. Enjoy the story, and remember, kudos are luves!

* * *

But before he can make contact, a voice rings out, imperious, blazing with fury. “Sebastian!”

It makes Shaw jerk away, with a scowl darkened not by anger, but rancor and malice.

For once in his life, Erik is glad when Emma Frost bursts into the room in all her lingerie clad finery, bringing with her the aura of a snowstorm while breaking Shaw’s hold on him. Her peerless face is twisted into something truly ugly by her unmasked vice, and Erik takes the chance to leave, practically leaping away, shoving past her without looking back, still holding the bowl to his chest as if he had not wanted to leave it with Shaw either. It would have met an undeserved fate, broken against Shaw’s head.

All he hears before the door slams shut is Emma’s usually low-volume, prim voice screaming, “ _What does that worthless slut fucking_  have _that I don’t?!_ ”

 

Escaping in relative silence, Erik goes to the only safe place he knows: Azazel’s room. After a few wrong turns and empty rooms, Erik is getting desperate before he’s yanked inside one, and by Azazel no less.

“Comrade, it is late; what are you doing, roving about like this in a panic?” His bluish green eyes look at the tightly grasped bowl, and he gently pries it from Erik’s fingers, setting it down on a nearby dresser. “Sebastian finally showed you his true colors, didn't he?”

The blonde nods numbly, fussing with his turtleneck to try and rub away the echo of the man’s touch.

“Does he… Does he take this much of an initiative with everyone he’s obsessed with?”

“ _Nyet_ , Erik. Only you. Something tells me that even getting Charles, an invariably difficult task, was to, somehow, trap you here. He knows you won’t leave without him.”

“I’m fucked then, aren't I? Because he's right.  I can't--I _won't_ leave without Charles."

“Worry not, all hope is not yet lost. You just need to do a few things.”

“Did you see something in that book of yours?”

“Yes, a prophecy. It has pictures.”

“My good luck that I have you then,” Erik sighs, not totally sarcastic.

“Very. Come with me, it’s in the library.”

A loud, glass-like shatter is heard, muffled by distance and old wood. It makes Erik jump, but Azazel just shakes his head. “Emma’s breaking things again. Sebastian needs to learn he can’t flirt around with her here. That’s why she hates you and Charles, not even bringing up your past upsets.”

“Disgust is mutual,” Erik says flatly, following Azazel closely out through the winding halls.

“Sebastian likes you; that makes you a threat, in her eyes,” Azazel says understandingly, opening up the large oaken doors, releasing a smell of must and old paper.

“Don’t ask me to go easy on her if she gets it into her head to get even for something I didn't do.”

“Of course not, Comrade… I said it because Emma must tread lightly around you, if she wants to keep her title as Queen. I know Sebastian… He likes Emma for her constant fawning and possessive loyalty. He likes you because you remind him of himself.”

Walking up to one of the long, rectangular tables, Erik sits down in waiting, chilled by the almost repeated words as Azazel climbs up a rolling ladder and selects a volume from one of the topmost shelves, Volume 1000000000000066600000000000001 of Belphegor’s Boring Day. He brings it down slowly, and lays the thick volume on the table with a resounding thunk! in the quiet of the library.

It’s ancient, filled with blank pages until they are flipped; bleeding onto the blank space, pictures of man’s first inventions form on the yellowed paper, all the way up to crisp new paper and the invention of AI and the cure for cancer, scribbled hastily in the corner, "Not Ready."

He flips back with tanned hands, and the pages’ pictures fall back in time, until they stop at a creme colored one, toward the middle of the book. It’s a title page, illustrated in flowing ink drawings of flowers, a moon, an apple tree, barren but with apples, and a pale figure with dark wings hooded in scarlet that fill in magically with watercolor-like paint.

“ _In Fairytale de Erici_?” whispers Erik, mesmerized by the book; he never fails to be surprised, looking into its pages.

“Your prophecy, my friend, penned in the first century B.C. by this book. It knew long before any what would befall you.”

Erik strokes the page gently, seeing himself there, and flips it to the next. Another picture, showing the creation of the archangels, the seraphim; Michael and Lucifer and Beelzebub and all the rest, shaped by the hand of God, and there himself, Asmodeus, green eyed and luminescent just like Persephone, a jewel among the archangels with his lighthearted smile and gentle affections. It is captioned by this line of poem:

_An archangel will be born of living sight,_

_eyes of vivid green, wings of unholy grey and white._

_Therein lies the seeds of lust, the flower and the sword,_

The next picture depicts the Day: the ornate, golden hued throne room of God is unmistakable, white and pure and absolute. The faces of the angels ranges from neutral to joyous, to grudging or spiteful. His own is accepting and warm, waiting for the day he can give his own gift to humanity: the pleasures of the body, of love and touch, the--then uncorrupted-- most close and pleasurable act of human existence.

_and he shall fall not of his own accord,_

_but twisted by He Whose Eyes Are Emptily Lit;_

_The Enemy of The World will drag him into the Pit,_

The next picture pains him to look at; it shows only a dark, round entrance to the tunnel beneath the earth, cold and foreboding, holding its secrets like a dead man.

Erik is grateful for that. Then, the grey grass, the ancient, thick-trunked apple trees, with their apples of red and maroon; the deer, black and charcoal with ivory antlers; the occasional Hell sparrow, singing with him as he tends them; the Garden of Luxuria.

_and Michael will cast him into the Garden of Lust_

_for a thousand years to regain The Lord’s trust._

The picture changes, however, as he gets to the next verse. A young angel seems to have met him by the Barrier, dressed in robin egg blue robes. He can’t see his face, however, blocked from view by blossoms. He is, however, wearing a ring later on, sparkling with a sad luster.  He does not know him.

_He shall meet before this thousand done an angel of blue eyed rage,_

_and his damnation will be deepened as Lucifer’s cage,_

_and the light will come for him._

_Over the course of three days and three nights,_

_three centuries will they meet in Lucifer’s sight,_

_and when the time comes to collect, the bargain at an end,_

The page is flipped, and the next picture depicts the faces of some of the fallen archangels: Beelzebub, Leviathan, Belphegor, and himself; the odd thing, however, is that Lucifer’s, Mammon’s, and Satan’s faces are blotted out, like someone has erased them. Erik scowls, notes it, and reads on, Azazel over his shoulder.

_Lucifer for the daemon prince will send,_

_and all the others by their names,_

_to claim the daemon prince Asmodeus and keep him tame._

_Then, Heaven will glow with Mercy’s light,_

_sending a serpentine herald, a full moon for the ancient Rite,_

_bathed in candle wax, apple red and rope of silk,_

_the Bird of Hermes will bathe in milk,_

_releasing the angels from their hidden core,_

_and he shall be a prince of daemons no more._

The last page is all text, and after is blank.  “Why aren't there pictures for the last part of the prophecy?”

“I don’t know, Erik. My best guess is that the pictures signify the events have been fulfilled.”

“The same with the faces?”

“They aren't here yet, I suppose.”

“Makes sense,” Erik sighs tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose, his head aching. “And just when I thought things couldn't be more complicated.”

“Life is like that, comrade. It gets you in the balls when, for that one day, you aren't wearing a cup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope that wasn't too shabby, have to say I'm not totally pleased with the ancient prophecy, and the whole thing is a bit short, but hey, if I tried to fiddle with it more it would just get worse. But more importantly... What does this mean for Charles and Erik???? When do we meet Mammon? Who IS he for that matter? I love to hear speculation, so go wild! XD


	23. Alluding Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we need a break from all the action, or, in which Shaw and Emma try and work out their problems and Erik has a host of new ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all you lovelies, thanks for leaving luves, especially you Miss or Mister Renuki, damn internet being gender mysterious! Aw well, thanks to everyone! IDOA, and sadly, this will be one of the last chapters I post before going away for real world business; it will be a long hiatus of sorts, but I swear this thing WILL get finished!

* * *

“Is that so?” murmurs the blonde, flipping back to the first few pages, the one with all the archangels; he looks back at himself, in the past, before hatred and lust and starvation and death were loosed upon the world like hell hounds.

“I can’t see how I could ever be like that again, Azazel.”

“You've still got a good week left. The full moon will be upon you at its end; it’s your decision to make; whether you believe it,” Azazel shrugs, “or you don’t. Either way, you should have this…”

Azazel slips from his black tunic pocket a ring; the same in the book, down to the twining of silver vines and roses. He places it in Erik’s palm and closes his fingers over its glowing gem, like a fire opal lets out rays of light; this radiates more like the Auroras.

“It was yours, at one time,” the coal haired man says cryptically as another bang echoes throughout the mansion. “Now go rest, comrade. You’re going to need it.”

Azazel leaves Erik to escape from his thoughts as, once again, he has to play demonic marriage counselor to the most insufferable couple he knows.

Knowing he can’t conceivably go back to his own room, likely being torn apart by Miss January, he heads outside after grabbing his spare boots, thankfully, stashed in a closet, into the dark and the cold, a light shiver running through him.

He sits on a stone bench on the back veranda, gazing up at the soft moon as he rolls the ring from hand to hand, the other worldly glow still as strong as ever. He ponders its existence, his former ownership of it; why is it former? Had he sold it, or has it been claimed as another’s? He doesn't know, and it makes his second skin prickle with anticipation.

Just a week, before the world either goes to Hell, quite literally, or he gets the redemption he’s never believed would grace him.

He’s lost to thoughts of past and future, and does not notice the crunchy footsteps near him on frost hardened soil. Alex is in a kind of trench-coat, rubbing at his hands as he sits beside Erik. “You mind me, man?”

“No, you’re fine, Alex.”

The young man grins, does a small fist pump that gets Erik to smile too, and he looks interestedly at the glowing ring still in Erik’s hands.

“Whoa, that’s such an awesome ring! Is it yours?”

“I… Yes, I suppose so.”

“It’s real pretty, with all that light coming out of it. Is it a mood ring thing?”

“I’m actually not sure what the colors are about.”

“Is it okay if I can, hold it?”

“Sure, just don’t drop it or eat it or something.”

“You overestimate my ability for being brainless; you should see me play Halo,” snickers Alex, gently receiving the ring from Erik’s outstretched fingers.

It loses its luster, but only by a fraction. Alex squints at it critically, examining every tiny rose and twisted vine, each facet of the round stone. He pulls it away, then moves it forward again multiple times, Erik watching as he would someone sleeping on a bed made of corgi puppies. Or Alex waving a glow in the dark ring back and forth as if he were studying astrophysics.

“What the hell are you doing Alex?”

“No no, see? I’m not doing this to bug you… Watch the stone.”

And so Erik does, and what he sees is both puzzling and astonishing; every time the stone is moved close to him, it brightens and intensifies. When it’s moved away, it dims, ever so slightly.

“Cool! It likes you or something, Erik!”

“I guess it does,” he says quietly, mostly to himself.

“You know, Charles would really like something like that; he’s like a magpie, enjoys shiny things. And I hear from a certain cutie fly he’s really into you.”

And here it strikes like lightning, the tree alight under its power. Even so, he’s not moved enough by epiphany to prevent himself from blushing.

“Yeah, he’s very nice.”

“Well good for you and him! This place needs some cheer and lovey-dovey-ness to it.”

A few moments of silence, and Erik asks, for the sake of curiosity, “Been covering the grounds?”

“You betcha. Shaw’s got me working overtime since the extra guards ate the dirt sandwich. Cleaned the entire basement today. Nasty business with cobwebs and cracks in the plaster, questionable stains, you name it. You wouldn't believe the damn floorboards… They creak like zombies groaning, like there’s some sorta hole beneath them. Too freaky for me to explore, no sir.”

“Not a big fan of Jame Gumb then are you?” he chuckles, sweeping back blonde bangs.

“That’s exactly what that means. I’m sticking to my comedies and my action dramas, and that’s that.” The teen gets up and brushes off his baggy jeans.

“Well, see you in the morning old man, I’m bushed.”

“You too, pipsqueak,” replies Erik, watching his silhouette walk off towards the mansion, his sneakers leaving barely traceable footprints in the white frost. He looks back to the moon, wondering if its silvery beams will really set him free, or if this is another cruel joke from Michael.

 

In Erik’s room, intact and mostly undamaged, save for a vase and the headboard, Emma and Shaw sit opposite each other, with Azazel missing because those two take too much energy to deal with and the situation usually resolves itself if given enough time. Emma’s blonde locks writhe like snakes, her pupils still slit and glowing. Her mouth is set back in its usual perfect, cold pout, but cracks of passion can be seen all inside it.

When Shaw tries to pet her hand, it scales over with diamond, and he withdraws with a wistful frown.

“Emma dear, you know I love you.”

“You fuck me once in a blue moon, you don’t ever tell me you care, and your mind is three-fourths scheming, one-fourth Charles, and the other half is fucking Erik. I wouldn't call that love; not for me.”

“I’m a man, what can I say? Duped and on a one-track from the beginning.”

“We are exempt from that sad little excuse, love; before Adam and his Fall, remember? You’re just too damned arrogant to admit your boy-toy obsession of the eon is just not that into you. You think, ‘How could he not be into me?’ That is where your idiocy lies. You have me, for Christ’s sake, why do you even _want_ him?”

“Don’t bring Erik into something that doesn't concern him just because you’re insecure, my dear; and I don’t want him; I _need_ him. He’s perfection incarnate, as far as can be achieved in my eyes; not that you’re any less lovely, Emma, but I made him, after all. Of course he’s nearly perfect.”

This really snips at Emma’s nerves, and the snakes of her hair turn white and stiff with jealousy. Shaw simply smiles that cool, wistful smile of his, waiting for her to say it isn't true.

“This has everything to do with him. And you know it. I won’t let you manipulate me if I don’t get something out of it, Original Sin or not.”

“And that’s why we’re a match made in Hell, dearest Emma. You take, and I take, and what is there to give? Nothing. And that leaves nothing to lose; only to gain. I wouldn't keep you around otherwise, and you would do the same. You’re cunning and cutthroat, and I love that about you.”

He leans forward, manipulative fingers pulling strings, her strings, triggering pleasure in her serpent’s calculating brain despite her knowledge to the contrary: the flattery, the desire she always craves from him; his praises warm her frigid heart like the sun.

She doesn't see it often these days.

He smiles when he touches her thigh, warm and firm beneath his hands.

“You’re beautifully shrewd and hard, like the diamonds your skin imitates. Would you like to go to town tomorrow and look for a new necklace, or a pair of earrings? Oh, but none of them would be more dazzling than you.”

She allows herself to smile, just the slightest, and gets up to straddle Shaw in her lace panties and corset, the sheer night gown coming down just past mid thigh, her long blonde hair brushing Shaw's cheeks softly. Emma allows herself to change, because she knows how much he loves to see her as someone else; it stings, sometimes, knowing that, but tonight, it’s not so bad; because she knows Shaw cares for her, values her, in his own way, enough to deal with a substitute than to abandon her for the real thing.

‘ _At least, for now_ ,’ she thinks, clear and cold as she kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azazel has the best solutions; unfortunately for his peace, Seb and Emma's problems are gonna need a lot more than just a ceasefire. And where IS that herald already?


	24. Memory is Dream; Dream is Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone remembers; everyone dreams. Shaw just likes to mess with that flow. Or the chapter where Erik is forced to sleep on the couch and Charles is mad again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely people, hiatus is OVER and I'm glad to be back! Thanks for keeping in tune and giving your support! Sorry for the long absence, but I'm back now! IDOA, and enjoy the new chapter!

* * *

Erik makes his bed on the downstairs couch, a small thing of blankets and a pillow from the adjacent chair. He rubs at his eyes, drowsy again and longing for the oblivion of sleep. Resting his head on the pillow, curling into the lumpy yet welcome cushions, he wonders about the prophecy; mostly, when, and why.

He tries to avoid it, but as prophecies often do, his thoughts just come around full circle, leaving him once again questioning, worrying. He can’t stay here much longer; not with Shaw breathing down his neck, prowling around him in deadly circles… waiting.

‘ _Damned either way… Ah… I’d almost say Hell is better than here_ ,’ he muses, the dimly lit room going dark as his eyelids drift closed.

 

In the room of blue, Shaw’s room, Charles waits anxiously for the dawn, looking out of the one small window at the darkened grounds, the white of the frost giving some shape to the swirling black outside. He scowls and sighs, shakes his head.

He mumbles, rather pathetically he admits, “What are you doing, Charles?”

‘ _You’re worrying about the man you--_ ’

‘ _Don’t say it_ ,’ he interjects his other thought angrily, staring out into the night. ‘ _Erik can take care of himself_.’

‘ _Not against this. Against him. You saw his eyes._ ’

‘ _Shut up…!_ ’

‘ _The hunger… The fires you’ve but glimpsed raised to an inferno by just the_ sight _of him… How he cradled him in his arms like some wooing savior._ ’

‘ _He’s alright. He’s fine, he’s probably sleeping right now! He’sfineHe’sfineHe’s--_ ’

‘ _In the dungeon. In that hole in the earth; the one you begged to be spared. Who knows what it hides?_ ’

Charles rubs at his sore temples, glaring at his slight reflection in the window with open malice. The bright blue of his irises seems different now, speckled with some tangy, warm color. The light in the room is dim, but now it seems too brilliant, too harsh; another migraine, he thinks, and stumbles from the window to the bed. He lands face down, frowning into the silken sheets that still smell of bitter spit and sweat and sex just as bitter, scarred with strands of semen. He takes deep breaths, in, out, trying to calm, but it doesn’t help; it rarely does.

He hates Shaw, hates this place, the terrible futility of it all. His delicate hands clench the sheets, balling them up into ugly clumps; his sick anxiety continues to climb deep into the night.

Even when Shaw finally comes back, and presses his venomous lips to the back of his neck, Charles is still face down in silent fury.

 

The clock strikes two. Shaw is sitting up in bed beside Charles, now fast asleep.

He stares into the mirror hanging across the way. Its silvery face is full length, and he watches himself stare into its fathomless depths, cold and unknown.

He sees his own soulless eyes conjure up the past, weaving the present’s sensations and visions into it. He closes them, and begins to dream. He can see, in the darkness, a soft blue light, mixing with gold to make green.

_An angel is being born; one more beautiful than any of his brothers or sisters; more pious than Michael; more sweet and kindly than Leviathan; more radiant than even Lucifer. God’s most favored angel stands the closest; his bright face is rapt, in awe._

_The eldest angel can see the gorgeousness, plainly painted in the new one’s face, so young and fresh and perfect; pale, sharp, like a work of finest white glass. All the other features flood his senses with pretty light; yet, those eyes set inside his hollow sockets, like all the pristine waters, green and blue of the Earth; they steal reason and all thought._

_Lucifer’s heart twists and turns, burning reverence alight for this new creature, but somehow more gentle, more aching._

_What is this that moves him so? He watches, enchanted as the Heavenly Host asks,_

_“And what is thou’s name, thou new holiest of holy, thou Seraph, Archangel?”_

_The angel, looking about his long, pointed wings with marvel, white as the Earth’s first snow, misses the question. The Host clears its throat. All the angels laugh softly; the new one looks up, blushing, and then at the spirit, he replies in a shy voice of purest enchantment,_

_“Heavenly Host, you that are ruler of all; my name is Castitas.”_

_“And what qualities dost thou value most in this world, Castitas?”_

_“Honesty and loyalty in all things; but most of all,” he pauses, and the crowd smiles collectively, “purity and tenderness in love.”_

_There are murmurs of assent and joy around the circle; they are pleased. Such conviction! Such obvious thoughtfulness, intelligence and wisdom!_

_“Castitas, Holiest of Love’s Purity, thou art the last holy of holies, saith the Lord God.”_

_Lucifer is captivated; he must have this Castitas; surely only the favorite of God would be worthy of him. Industria watches from the edge of the crowd, keen eyes shifting from this new angel to Lucifer; he sees things as they are meant to be, and now he sees the seeds of discord begin to form in his brother’s pale eyes, golden and scheming as the eagle’s. He shakes his head, sighing. It’s such a busy thing, being the recorder for Heaven; he never gets any breaks._

_Slouching against a marble column, he wishes for an unlimited amount of vacation days, just to lie around and rest his tired wings; they’re starting to fray._

_He flies off to write into his book--with magic-- the coming events. Castitas turns, the blonde of his hair catching the light; he sees a young woman, holding a silk robe of blue for him to wear; he accepts it with a shy smile, and tries to ignore the mysterious angel staring directly at him; something in his face frightens him, and he lowers his eyes respectfully._

_“Don’t mind Lucifer,” the female angel grins, coppery skin glowing under her dark hair, thin wings fluttering like a hummingbird’s, covered in thousands of minuscule feathers._

_“He’s harmless. My name is Temperantia; I’m the cupbearer and gardener, so to speak. If you have any questions, especially about food, just ask me.”_

_He smiles, and says, “Thank you.”_

 

_Months in; Castitas has earned his place among his brothers and sisters, being the kindest and most forgiving in regards to the future humans. In the harshness of Nature on Earth, he asks the Spirit for additions like flowers and soft grass, things natural and tender, points of gentleness in an otherwise firm and unforgiving place, too random seeming and hard for humans, he believes._

_It brightens his heart to see his request granted, and the Earth better for it. The good, however, has been somehow tainted._

_Benevolentia, the closest of his two sisters, afterward refuses to speak with him, her large green eyes accusatory and upset; it weighs heavily in his sensitive heart, for he has done nothing he can think of to offend her._

_And then, there is Lucifer._

_“A wonderful suggestion, Castitas,” he purrs, hugging him lightly near the grove of golden apples. He hugs back in turn, enjoying the warmth in the touch. But then, the contact tightens, and he has to draw away, cheeks flaming red, a stirring within him unlike anything he’s felt before._

_He has to excuse himself hastily, wings spreading into flight. It’s been like this often, lately; Lucifer will touch him, a chaste hand on his cheek, an arm innocently wrapped around his shoulders, and he’ll become feverish. He doesn’t know what’s going on. His wings, his eyes are beginning to change too. Instead of their natural white, purer than any, they are moulting into a stormy grey; his eyes are beginning to show bits of a mysterious copper. It’s terrifying, and the only one he has been able to talk to is Industria._

_He knows he has answers, he always does, but whenever he implores him, Industria just shakes his head, stroking his black goatee, as if pondering events not yet come._

_Something dark has slithered into Paradise, and it seems to have its eyes set unerringly on Castitas._

_Sleeping that night, the pure young angel hears a voice, calling hot and bright in his mind a name he does not know. “Asmodeus,” it hisses._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad most of you don't think I'm mangling the characters of Marvel. XD Thanks once again for all the support and you wonderful peeps in the comments section! I'm looking at you Latin Major! I hope I can get the new chapter out tomorrow or the day after. Also... Who's dream/memory was that? Who's Castitas? Who's LUCIFER??


	25. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik awakes from a very strange dream, and all is not as it seems. Or Janos and Erik finally have a conversation, and accounting is a euphemism for steamy inter-species sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, for I have been so busy with real world stuffs! I'll get back into the swing of things eventually.  
> Thank you guys so much for keeping up through hiatus, I know it sucks. IDOA but the story, so enjoy!

* * *

Erik’s eyes snap open before he sits up, back rigidly straight. His face is covered in a nervous sweat, and he rubs it away, blinking.

He doesn't know what he dreamed about last night; all he knows is that he never remembers, and it isn't ever a dream. He looks around at the minimal lighting, the shadows that swallow up the light of day; the door, the carpet. He’s in the living room, and he remembers it. The smell of breakfast food wafts in the air, and his nose absently discerns the individual items. He’s too distracted by the aura of unease to pay attention, the feeling hanging over the mansion like a ghastly veil. He has to follow his intuition; the place is dangerous today, though he doesn't and does know why.

Throwing off the cover, he gets up and stretches, yawning softly. Rubbing his face of sleep, he wanders into the kitchen, greeted by a more subdued version of Angel’s bright smile, lighting her coppery face all the same as she stops what she’s doing to hug him.

“I was so worried about you last night.”

“I know; I’m fine, Angel, it was just a little spill.”

“Yeah yeah, you’re a big boy and can take care of yourself… That doesn't mean I have to stop caring about you. Shaw isn't exactly your everyday sociopath on the street. You need to eat more, drink more fluids, whatever you need to do to prevent another attack.”

She pulls back from their embrace, cold brown stones looking back at him from her eye sockets when she says, “You can’t leave yourself vulnerable like that again with him around.”

Erik swallows softly, nodding. “I know that too. I’ll try my best.”

“Good morning Erik, Angel,” Shaw says cheerily, as cheerily as his hollow, pale voice allows him to sound. “Sweet dreams, I assume?”

“Peachy, sir.” Erik shudders, turning his eyes to the others coming in. In tow are Charles and Emma, not in that order.

The pale serpentine woman is wound around Shaw’s arm like an albino boa, possessive, purring in her luxury. A thick white-mink ushanka and coat; a white corset, intricately embroidered in flowers with silver thread, dotted by sparkling silver crystals; skin-tight white leggings, lace down the sides, with knee length leather boots to match; white, white gloves; dressed in the height of Russian finery, she’s nearly flawless in her role, but for one mistake: she sends him a prim, cold sneer with pale painted lips, reveling in her beauty.

He simply rolls his eyes, dismissive and unperturbed; let her feel superior for once.

Charles is surprisingly dressed in something other than a silk robe, and Erik has to force his eyes to move from him, so lovely is his visage. His delicate chestnut waves and curls are tamed to some semblance of a part to the left, and his eyes stand out startlingly bold from his face, lined lightly with brown kohl, unnoticeable to an outside observer. The brown tweed blazer fits him smartly, broadens his smaller shoulders and accentuates his tapered waist. And the grey slacks… they bring out delicious things in his posterior that Erik feels downright shameful for noticing. Painted on is a mediocre expression.

Hell, they’re _tattooed_ on for all he knows.

Taking a plate piled high with hot pancakes, dripping with syrup-- given by a now grinning Angel and her invisible fly familiars-- Erik moves toward the customary mahogany dining table, Janos sitting near the end alone. Taking into account Charles’ dangerously seductive professor-attire, Shaw’s positively crawly smile, and Emma’s blatantly poisonous sneers in his direction, Erik takes a spot by the quiet, brooding Latino, a man after his own heart with the globs of butter swirling in holy union with the syrup on his pancakes. He begins eating, trying to ignore the silent eyes on his cheek.

After a few sinfully delicious bites, he asks, “Where’s Azazel this morning?”

“In the library again,” was the short reply as he ate in virtual silence.

“He said he had to check on some things.”

“With Azazel, sometimes it’s better not to know.”

“Yes.”

Lying down his fork, Janos wipes his mouth smoothly with a napkin, and looks at Erik with inscrutable brown eyes.

He says, “You’re Mandingas; the white devil who lured away the kingpin, Martez, in the village that day. You lured him into the river and drowned him. I saw you; you, strangling him, your white robes bursting into red as if by some evil magic.”

For a moment, he squeezes his fingers, and instead of a silver fork, he feels the soft, fat flesh of a neck crushing between his fingers; the light, oily scraping sensation of a golden chain; he sees bloodshot, bulging eyes, motley smoke-diseased skin turning blue.

Erik continues to eat.

“I don’t deny that’s what you saw that day.”

“Is he in Hell?” The young man is focused, voice intense with suppressed feeling. Erik can empathize.

“Yeah, a nice burny spot next to some other low-life drug peddlers and murderers. Your mother was able to go peacefully to Heaven afterward.”

“You knew her?” His face is relieved now, as the two continue to eat and talk.

“I looked after her soul, as I did many others’. I take care of their… loose ends.”

“Vengeance, then.” His voice is frank.

“Yes, I suppose. Vengeance, favors, whatever it is they need to move on. I’m not heartless, you know. I had a mother once, too.”

“You are a demon,” he states not unkindly, puzzled. “I’ve had a human form for some time. This mother, she was human, as was my father.”

He pauses, and goes on. “I loved her. I saw her die in front of me. That we have in common.”

Janos nods, digesting the information with an expression of empathy. After a few moments, he holds up his glass of milk with a wistful smile.

“To our mothers then, Erik. May they ever rest in peace.”

“To our mothers.” He touches the rim of his glass to Janos’, and drinks, finishing off his breakfast after the swallow. There is a quiet silence in the wake of their milk toast, but it is tranquil, unlike the awkward blanket it had been before. Death, any kind, has a funny way of bringing people together. Especially the deaths of mothers.

“Do you have anyone else?”

Erik smiles, and shakes his head at Janos’ reserved expression.

“Don’t be nervous asking me things. Besides… Losing the things that can hurt you, if you love them, is sometimes better than leaving them to be twisted and broken in your wake. Even then, no, I never had any relatives other than my parents.”

“It seems we have that in common too, _camarada_. Never thought I would have sympathy for a devil,” says Janos seriously, scooping up what syrup is left on his plate as Charles sets his own noisily next to Erik’s, hugging his neck from behind in a vice grip.

“You lunkhead, I was so worried about you!” “Ch-Charles, d-- don’t, you’re choking me,” Erik stutters over his words, clamping down on one.

‘ _I almost called him ‘dear.’ I need to be more careful_.’

The grip loosens to a comforting pressure as Charles nuzzles his cheek, pouting.

“Is that really the reward I get for being so concerned? You’re mean,” the brunette says, sticking out his tongue before sitting down to dig into his food. “Don’t be such a downer, didn't anyone tell you? We’re going shopping today!” Charles almost squeals, bright blue eyes animated with anticipation.

“It’s been such a long time since I was let off the compound; best of all, now I’ll have someone fun to share the time with.”

Erik is touched by the public show of trust, and he smiles if only to humor Charles’ excitement.

“Oh? But just a moment ago I remember you calling me a mean lunkhead.”

“You’re a mean, fun-spirited lunkhead, how’s that?”

“Better,” the blonde all but laughs. “Is everyone going on this little trip?”

“If you mean boss and bitch, sadly, yes, but I don’t think they’ll bother us too much. They’re going to all these high-end boutiques I can’t even pronounce the names of; ugh, those two are absolutely dreadful!” Charles replies with his nose in the air, sipping his tea with mock pretension, pinky out, and that does get Erik to laugh.

“What will you and Azazel be doing, Janos? It doesn't seem quite fair to you guys, getting stuck with watching Alex, love the kid’s soul.”

“Actually, it’s just going to be me and Azazel today; when everyone goes out, he and I catch up on the syndicate's account books,” the Latino man says, his quiet, accented voice soft on the daemon’s human name. “Alex will be helping Angel with groceries. I shudder to think what he’ll try to buy.”

Erik eyes him, a knowing light in his green eyes, and Janos ducks his head.

“Angel’ll reign him in, no worries Janos,” says Charles, snickering, oblivious to the man’s embarrassment.  “Anyway, go get your shoes on partner, we’re going for a ride. Azazel has a motorcycle we can totally borrow. You familiar with the mechanics?” asks Charles, sucking the syrup off the tines of his fork, pink, glossy tongue laving the silver of its sticky covering. Erik swallows, throat dry, and his milk is gone.

He manages to reply hoarsely, “I am; what kind of assassin would I be if I couldn't drive a motorcycle?”

“A pretty lousy one,” interjects Janos dryly, laughing in Erik’s presence for the first time as Charles howls. Erik is actually grateful for the humor.

“Haha, funny you two. Here, just let me get my boots.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shopping? Who's going to be there? Where exactly is this set? The English countryside? Germany? I don't even know!  
> And what exactly are Azazel and Janos up to? Mob ledgers, really Janos? Thanks for reading, and come again when hiatus is really dead!


	26. Motorcycles, Cannolis, and Limbo Town Approaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik go on a ride, Alex should stay away from foods stranger than apples and peanut butter, and shopping will go down. Or Erik looks really hot on machinery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lols, that summary. Anyway, thanks for keeping up dear readers, and love for all who wish to accept it! I don't know how long this writing burst will last, but for now, hiatus is dead and here's another chapter! Especially thank you special author for fluffing my author-pride! IDOA but the story, so enjoy!
> 
>  

* * *

Moments later, Erik is ready, his skin living marble in his livid trench coat. Charles takes his hand affectionately as they say goodbye to Janos and make it to the old garage, where Azazel’s sleek bike lives. Opening up the narrow back door, they are greeted by a gleaming Honda GL 400.

“A beaut, isn't it? I don’t know much about motorcycles, but I know it’s a nice one,” Charles comments as the blonde daemon approaches the bike, his teeth absently nibbling at his lower lip as his slender fingertips graze the smooth leather.

“Yeah… I always did like them; never was very tactful to buy one for myself,” he replies, running his hand along the thin piping of the mirrors with their shiny finish.

“Too easy to track when you’re bouncing around overseas.” Erik mounts the oddly graceful looking machine in one fluid motion, gripping the handlebars as if he’s been riding one forever. Charles is--for a few brief seconds-- unaware of mainstream reality as he watches Erik’s muscular thighs shift and squeeze in the black, trim slacks, stretched tight as he straddles the seat, shifting into the low dip of the bike; under different circumstances, it would seem like he was slowly rubbing off on it, or straddling a lover. When he sees the daemon’s thighs, however, squeezing smoothly against the chrome metalwork, boots arched up against the footrests…

The brunette squirms, and regrets the choice of the tweed slacks a size too small for him despite the sex appeal he knows they bring. Erik is still at the bike, blissfully oblivious as he inserts the keys and revs the throttle, the machine roaring to life with a seductive series of growls and sulphury exhaust fumes.

Combined with that, and the embarrassing tell-tale throb of his crotch, Charles very nearly faints. What the hell? Did that just give him a _stiff_?

 

Charles looks down.

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Jesus.

He has to look away, face burning, and strides close enough to raise his wallet over the daemon, surprisingly heavy as it hits the back of Erik’s head.

“What, Charles?” mutters Erik, still fidgeting lasciviously in the seat, trying to find the most comfortable position as the bike idles.

Charles turns red and yells, “You teasing bastard, stop fucking the dumb bike! You may not notice you’re drop dead sexy but I do, so get a move on!”

“And I thought you liked it,” Erik says, teasing for real with his best sultry look, pretending not to have heard him. He turns his head, and flicks out a serpentine tongue to moisten his lips. “Are you ill, Charles, your face is awfully red.”

The young Brit practically jumps behind him, grasping onto his torso like some human life preserver. His cheeks are too flushed and upset, if in a playful manner, for his erection to survive (thank God.)

Despite Erik’s hardiness, the sudden pressure still manages to knock some breath from his lungs. “Oof!”

“You lunkhead asshole…!”

“You’d kick me in the ribs and yell “Pony ride!” if you could!” retorts Erik with mock indignation.

“Pony rides? I want one!” Alex says, with all the real enthusiasm of a kid who actually wants a pony ride. He comes out with all the wild and daring a young man his age has, knocking the much abused old door into the wall without so much as a guilty flinch as Angel follows behind him, dressed in a thick orange velvet, knee-length dress and a black pea coat, her fly familiars darting about like migraine spots. Alex has on his-- what Erik thinks of as-- his trademark grey hoodie, sweats, and cheery grin.

“Shut up Alex, Erik’s not a horse; he’s more like a Bull shark,” Angel says briskly, jingling the keys to the civilian Honda.

“While we’re out food shopping, any special requests guys?”

Alex opens his mouth.

“If you ask for the soft, warm tubes that ooze sweet white cream, I’m going to hit you and correct you again. They’re cannolis, Alex; sweet, innocent cannolis. Don’t make them sound filthy.”

He shuts it.

“I’d like a box of that marzipan, from Darkholme’s, if it’s no trouble,” Charles says, voice kind and tentative; he’s always sweet and subdued with Angel; well, more so than he is with Erik.

Erik doesn't know why.

“None at all lover boy,” she giggles, Charles upping an eyebrow as Erik’s lips thin. “I have to go visit the confectioner’s anyway. We’re getting another guest soon, and as you know, a banquet with all the trappings is in order. Well, we’ll be going now, so drive on out before the monoxide fumes poison you, this is no time to pull a Romeo and Juliet. Come on Alex!”

Swinging open the driver’s door, Angel gets in as Alex whoops, “Shotgun!”

Charles and Erik wave goodbye to them as the Honda sputters and puffs out of the garage and onto the country road, out of sight.

“Very astute, isn't she?”

“Seriously though, it feels like I've got an older sister in her,” Charles sighs as Erik starts the bike onto the road, the cold air whipping past as the yellowed grass bends and ripples in their wake.  

As the countryside passes, Charles holds onto Erik’s waist, and leans his cheek against the heavy, warm cloth over his strong back, watching the grey rocks jutting from the earth, the green forest, and the frosty sky flow behind him, like he wishes memory did; like he wishes the past could do.  

There is only the rushing of the wind, and the dull roar of the motor as Erik drives, though at times Charles thinks he can hear a heartbeat; one independent of his own, and far more beautiful.  

Turns and twists and forks marked with wooden signs; this is civilization for now.  Erik takes in the landscape they drive through, and his chest blooms with sensation: the smell of crisp leaves and ripened grass, of earth;  the tactile feeling of wool and wind, of biting metal and human touch through cloth; the coldness pervading the moving air, the contrast it brings against the soft furnace against his back; the accuracy with which his unnatural ears can detect a beating human heart, serenity laced in each fragile beat.  How it enraptures his own!  The urge to protect it is strong, and Erik thinks worriedly of the prophecy, going over in his mind the details again, despite his ribcage’s dramatic protest.

Erik ignores his aching heart; for, the deathly seriousness of the next week does not escape him.

One misstep, and he will be in the clutches of someone worse than even Shaw.

“You’re thinking about something important, aren't you?” murmurs Charles, clinging harder to Erik as he makes a particularly sharp turn.  He should have insisted Charles wear a helmet, he thinks.  

But then, he probably would've refused anyway, stubborn man that he is.

“I suppose you could say that.”

“What is it, that you’re thinking about?”

“It’s a long story and I don’t understand half of it myself, to be honest.  Tell you later?”

“And by later do you mean never?”

“Maybe.  It’s not something pleasant.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Charles says into Erik’s shoulder as the road turns from grass and dirt to genuine asphalt.  “That’s what I’m here for.  I don’t want to share just the good times with you, Erik.  To be truly there for someone, you have to be there when shit happens too.”

“That’s actually very deep, Charles.  If not for your street dialect, you’d sound like a professor.”

“Asshole, who said I didn't go to college!”

“No one, I didn't mean to insult your intelligence…”

“Ha!  Joke’s on you, I never went to college,” laughs Charles as Erik slows to a stop for a light, the only vehicles around being small minivans and generic cars you can never brand with a distinct model.

“Yup, being a lot lizard at sixteen was definitely the way to go: twenty dollar bills, sex, beer, the open road; everything a jail-bait runaway could ask for in this cruel world.”

“You… really?  That…  That must have been hard.”

“You need to learn when I’m lying, it’s useful.  I only started sunning at truck stops when I was twenty.  Dirty bastards still thought I was sixteen.  No way I had the balls for that shit before I was legal for Chrissakes!  Call me a born whore, why don’t you?”  

Even without turning, he hears the glimmer in Charles’ smile.

“You really like making me feel bad, don’t you?” Erik grins as he pushes the gas, the motorcycle weaving through the thin traffic of the fairly small English town.

“I’m a sadist, yes; I love to see you apologize and grovel metaphorically at my feet,” replies the Brit, sniffing with affected arrogance and the cold, nipping at his now pink-tipped nose.

“Take the next right, we’ll be in town shortly.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses for sexy motorcycles or weirdly fluffy yet snarky banter other than I needed personal fan service and it was fun to write. X3  
> Thanks for reading, and hopefully I'll have another chapter up by next week!
> 
>  
> 
> Bonus: See the link... IF YOU DARE! http://codziennikfeministyczny.pl/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/men-posing-like-women-91.jpg?6cf989


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